


A Way Out

by mangobilorian



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Consensual, Cunnilingus, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Oral Sex, Penetration, Post Empire, Pre-Canon, mentions of the jedi - Freeform, public handjob (implied)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangobilorian/pseuds/mangobilorian
Summary: You only want to do three things in life: get off your planet, become a pilot, and trace your dead brother's footsteps.After an unconventional and embarrassing situation, you might consider adding a certain Mandalorian to that list...
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian/Reader, The Mandalorian/You
Comments: 44
Kudos: 300





	1. A Way Out

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is the first fic I've ever published, so I'm pretty nervous. I will appreciate any feedback!

As the night grew, so did the sounds of clinking glasses and boisterous chatter. It was still early, but the bar’s reputation lent itself to being occupied faster than the neighboring establishments. After all, the port city teemed with travelers, criminals, and average people, all of whom could use a drink and a woman or two.

You could only sigh at the noise. The bar was your father’s, and the adjoining brothel was your mother’s. Well, it wasn’t a real brothel. It was more of a collection of private rooms attached to the bar. There weren’t many rooms, but the girls were very pretty and ranged from human to Twi’lek to Togruta. They also hated you for some reason. When you turned your back to them, they’d whisper loud enough for you to hear their insults. If you faced them, they faked innocence and accused you of starting drama. Your parents, as loving as they were, were business people first. The girls made them a good profit; of course they’d prioritize their happiness over yours. It’s all for you, they would say.

The only person who understood you was your brother. Oh Maker, how you missed him. He was a pilot, one of the best on the planet. He would fly off-world and come back with tales of his travels. At one point, he promised to teach you to fly. During one of his expeditions, he went missing. You held out hope for months before news of his death arrived at your doorstep. You were only thirteen years old.

Seven years later, you were still stuck in the god-awful tavern. Nothing exciting ever happened, your time was spent helping your parents on the financial aspects of running a business. Of course, the walls had ears, and you were one of them. All the tavern girls were trained in subtlety pilfering information from clients which would then be shared in exchange for money. But you wanted information on things other than drugs and crime. You wanted to know about ways to get out of the planet to trace your brother’s steps. After almost a decade of gathering info, you still pulled up short.

When the night progresses and business overflows, you were often in the back office looking out the one-way window. It’s amusing to see what people do or say when they think no one is watching. You almost don’t notice the change in atmosphere. The regular tavern noises were always in the background of your mind, but the immediate hush caught your attention. Looking up, you see a tall man at the entrance. Armor covered his entire body, even his head. As if he could see you through the window, he tilts his helmet at you. The bar patrons mutter among themselves and resume their drinking after their initial shock.

A Mandalorian, the patrons whisper. Everyone was clearly interested in the man, but an undercurrent of fear ran through them. Bounty hunters, some said. Fiercest warriors in the galaxy, said others. I bet you that he isn’t even human, the brothel girls giggle.

The Mandalorian immediately approaches the girls, his steps direct and focused. He stops short of a green Twi’lek, named Zew’lon, who looks at him with the most seductive eyes she could muster.

“I’m looking for information about a man.” The disappointment of the girls was almost tangible.

“What makes you think we have the info you want? We’re much better at other services,” Zew’lon purrs. The Mandalorian simply stands there.

“I can pay. A male Devaronian, solidly built, and half of his right horn missing with an old scar through his eyebrow. Sound familiar?” The girls look at each other, silently communicating until they reach a decision. The Mandalorian’s description of his bounty struck a familiar chord. Last week, the bar had trouble with a Devaronian, and he was kicked out for harassing a girl. Two days later, he returned for more booze and pleasure only to end the night with his ass on the street outside the building. You didn’t get a good look at his face both nights, but you definitely knew him from the rumor mill. In fact, the man the Mandalorian seems to be looking for is none other than Ras Drun.

Zew’lon turns to the bounty hunter, her lashes fluttering. “We’ll make a deal with you, Mando. You can have the information free of charge if you pick one of us girls to pleasure. Sounds good?” Almost in disbelief, the Mandalorian steps back and examines each girl carefully.

“I can pay you for the information, or I’ll leave and find another bar,” he turns around, but a green hand hooks on to the crook of his elbow.

“You won’t find anything about the Devaronian you’re looking for elsewhere. We’re the best place in the city for drinks and girls but especially for information.” Her fingers curl tighter, the nails almost sinking into the dark fabric covering his arm. “Trust me, we offer the best. We made you a deal, a damn good one, so why won’t you take it? Is it because we’re not pretty enough for you?” She asks as she steps closer. Zew’lon is close enough that her head is only a few inches away from the Mandalorian’s covered neck, her glittering eyes looking into the darkened T-shaped visor. He tugs his elbow out from her grasp, almost violently.

“Then I’m leaving.” Something surges in your chest. The feeling of a missed opportunity, or maybe a longing for excitement. You clamor to the door and just as the Mandalorian walks away, you step out of the office.

“I know the Devaronian. Ras Drun, correct?” Your voice is loud enough for him to hear, albeit a little shaky. Stopping in his tracks, he faces you. Zew’lon shoots you daggers and a thin-lipped smile.

“Ah yes, the darling little owner’s daughter. Don’t worry, Mando. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She just wants to mess--” he holds a hand up, effectively silencing her and the entire bar of customers, all of whom were simply watching the scene unfold.

“You know Ras Drun?” You nod. “Tell me more,” he says, already reaching for a bag of credits. Before he can approach you, Zew’lon braces an arm against his chest plate.

“That girl abides by the laws of the tavern. We make an offer, and she upholds it.” Zew’lon can barely hide her annoyance. The Mandalorian grunts and shoves her arm off, continuing to walk towards you. Zew’lon, miffed and angry, reaches you before he does and drags you into the office.

“What do you think you’re doing, little girl?” The pure rage in her eyes makes you rethink all your prior decisions.

“He just wanted to know about the bounty. Holding that information for sex isn’t really moral, is it?” She laughs in disbelief.

“It’s immoral? Of course it is, girl. I’m a whore, I steal information from the criminals who come to fuck me, and I sell that info to the highest bidder. That’s what we all do. For once, a man who isn’t a gross Hutt or slimy criminal comes for our product. I’ve never had a taste of Mandalorians, you know. So when we offer him a perfectly good deal, you have the audacity to come down from your little throne because it’s immoral?” She scoffs, her fingers curling into her palms. Talons, you think. Zew’lon has talons, not nails.

Sighing, she looks at you. Really looks at you. She sees the pathetic way you curl into yourself, your downcast eyes, and sad posture. Maker, you had the confidence of a worm. A thought bubbles into Zew’lon’s head. She knew you were a virgin; it was a constant topic of conversation among the girls.

“Tell you what. You go to your precious Mando and tell him all about that Devaronian. But. He has to sleep with you. And we’ll know if it happens.” Brows furrowing, you look up at the Twi’lek. Fear hammers in your chest.

“Why--” she holds up a taloned finger.

“No protest. Either you do it or we do. Now let’s go.” She basically drags you out, her nails digging into your skin. When you leave the office, you see the Mandalorian standing in the same spot. The brothel girls are now dispersed back into their regular job of seducing the customers.

“Well, Mando. Feel free to take her.” She shoves you into the Mandalorian’s chest, his reflexes fast enough to stop a full collision with his chest plate. However, the bottom of his helmet dug into your forehead, making you wince. “Remember, little girl. We’ll know.” Zew’lon winks then moves on to flirt around the bar. The Mandalorian releases your arms and looks at you with anticipation. You clear your throat.

“Right. Um… this way.” You lead him down a hallway obscured by a red curtain. To the left are the private rooms for clients. To the right are the stairs leading to your living quarters above the tavern. On instinct, your feet go right before you realize that you were dragging an armored bounty hunter to what was essentially your house. Too late now to back out, you guess. As you climb the stairs shakily, you’re thankful that your parents are out on a business trip and won’t be there to see dragging a Mandalorian to your room.

You push open your door, the man behind you still as silent as ever. He sets his rifle down on your desk table and leans against the wall. Maker, he looks so large. Tall, broad shoulders, and so kriffing intimidating. You would be lying if you didn’t say you were attracted to the sight. He just stares at you, waiting. You clear your throat and shuffle your feet.

“The man you’re… uh… looking for is Ras Drun. He came to this tavern twice in the past week. The last time he was here was five days ago, I think.” You look everywhere but at him. You’re telling him about his bounty, but it feels like you’re the one he’s hunting instead. “Apparently, he has the habit of rotating around bars. I’m pretty sure he’s an alcoholic,” an awkward laugh bubbles out. “Anyway, rumor has it that he killed another Devaronian named Varc recently. Varc was an alright dude, but I think he was a spice dealer. A lot of people got mad when he died since he was their only source, you know?” The Mandalorian hadn’t moved a single inch since you started talking.

“A lot of Varc’s friends hang around the spaceport, so I doubt Ras left the planet. He’s probably laying low before he can leave to find more alcohol.” News of Varc’s death travelled fast, and all the local pilots knew about Ras almost immediately.

“How do you know all of this?” He tilts his head forward, light glinting off his helmet. His shoulders have dropped, his stance widened. He looks so relaxed.

“People talk and… I hang around the spaceport a lot. So I heard about it there too. I know Varc’s pilot friends. Here, I can give you their names.” Before he could say anything, you pull out some durasheet and a pen, writing down the pilot’s names, other taverns, and anything else you could think of that would help the Mandalorian. You don’t even know why you’re being so helpful. He takes the sheet in his hands and just stands there.

The Mandalorian pulls out a bag of credits and walks over to you, dropping it into your hand.

“Thank you,” he says as he turns to open the door. Nothing happens. He twists the handle again, but the door doesn’t budge. How can the door be locked from the outside? “It’s locked. Why did you--”

“Mando… didn’t that girl tell you what the deal was?” Zew’lon’s voice echoes from the other side. “We put a bunch of heavy things outside the door, so don’t even try to leave until after midnight. That’s when the most fun happens after all.” Giggles chorus from outside then die down as the girls leave. The Mandalorian turns to you.

Anger. All you feel is anger deep in your stomach. How dare they trap you in your own fucking room?! With a bounty hunter, no less. But you’re also afraid. Because now you have to address the “deal” you made with Zew’lon. The Mandalorian’s fists clench at his sides. He wants to pick up his rifle and get the fuck out of there.

Ras Drun had escaped him on two planets. That Devaronian knew Mando was after him, so he made it as hard as he could to find him. Until he apparently murdered the friendly neighborhood spice dealer. What an idiot. Mando knows he can break out of this room. A couple shots of his amban rifle and the door would be gone to bits. Or he could simply prop open your window and crawl out that way. Uncivilized but necessary. But the Twi’lek’s words and your anxious face confused him.

Maker, you were the most nervous person he had ever met. And that’s including the list of bounties who begged for their life. Mando understood that his reputation, or his culture for the matter, preceded him. Mandalorians were bounty hunters, hired mercenaries, and the best fighters in the galaxy. Anyone would be nervous around him. But you… you were shifty around everyone. Even the annoying Twi’lek. You hadn’t even protested when she dragged you into the back room or when she pushed you into his chest. You just stood there and took it. And you could barely even muster up the confidence to tell him about Ras Drun. The very cadence of your voice and posture screamed anxiety and fear. Somehow, your demeanor frustrates him.

Mando sighs. You gave him useful information but at what cost to? Being stuck with a young, frightened girl while his ship was docked in the port? He was exhausted from a long day in hyperspace and just wanted a private place to take off his helmet and sleep. He could tell that his silence was killing you, given that you were gnawing on your bottom lip nervously.

“What deal?’ he asks, probably too harshly. The distortion of his voice made him sound lifeless, scarier. He sees you gulp, his eyes trained on the soft column of your throat. He could also see the ways your eyes moved, as if you were contemplating on whether you should lie.

“Z-zew’lon said that I have to s-sleep with you after I tell you a-about Ras. I didn’t think she’d lock us in here. Honest to Maker. I r-really didn’t know,” you all but sob. The reality was sinking in for you. Mando shakes his head. You were quite obviously on the verge of a panic attack. He doesn’t really deal with stuff like that. But there was something about the entire situation that seemed… deeper to you. Yes, you were stuck with a scary bounty hunter. But the blush on your cheeks was probably not from the tears about to sprout from your eyes.

To test his budding theory, Mando steps closer and sees your blush deepen. You don’t move a muscle as Mando stands right in front of you, his feet entering your periphery. Cautiously, almost hesitantly, a gloved hand lifts your chin. Your lips tremble under his touch, and Mando can see the unshed tears gathering. “Do you want to sleep with me?” he asks, if only to see your reaction. Your eyes widen comically as you try to sputter a response, but a finger stops your lips from moving. They tingle from the sensation.

“I think it’s clear the Twi’lek won’t let us out anytime soon. I won’t do anything you don’t me to do.” He looks past you and at your bed. Your medium-sized, fluffy, real bed. “I could use some sleep, anyway.” He lets go of you, and he could see a flash of emotion in your eyes. Disappointment, maybe? Why would you be disappointed? He thought that the idea of him just sleeping wouldn’t scare you as much as actually have to sleep with him. But no, the nervousness was still there. Kriffing hell, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to sleep in a real bed. Weeks on the Razor Crest’s atrocious cot did nothing for his aching back. But now he has to calm you down first before he can sleep. In your silence, you just stare back at him.

“Do you trust me?” He chides himself. Of course you don’t trust him; he’s a helmeted bounty hunter. But to his surprise, you nod. “Do you have a spare piece of fabric?” You nod again and move to get an old shirt. Gently, he takes it from your hands and looks at your eyes. One swipe of his gloved finger and the moisture is gone. He wraps the shirt around your eyes, ensuring its snug fit. “Can you see anything?” You shake your head.

Slowly, he removes his armor. His helmet stays on and he places the armor next to his rifle. He locks the door and turns off the light. You gasp at the added black to your vision. Mando, still able to see with his helmet, maneuvers you to the bed. You almost stumble backwards, but his arms hold on to you. His hands radiate heat, the calloused fingers almost soothing to your skin. Wait. He’s not wearing his gloves. In fact, when you reach out to touch him, you realize he’s not wearing any armor at all. Except for his helmet. So very carefully, Mando sets you down in a sitting position. Now he is the one who is nervous.

Maker, this was his idea, and he knows it’s not a good one. But seeing you perched on the bed, eyes covered, and shoulders hunched in nervousness really does set off some deep primal instinct. However enticing you do look though, he just wants to ease your anxiety then promptly sleep. The sound of a hiss echoes around the room as he lifts his helmet off and sets it down on the floor next to the bed. You couldn’t believe it. Ten minutes ago, you were rambling to him about his next bounty and now he’s helmetless while you’re blindfolded on your bed.

Mando can’t see anything anymore, but he remembers your general position. His hands cradle your face so very gently. Who would have known that the scariest hunter in the parsec was so soft? His breath fans over your face briefly. This was it. Your first kiss would be with a Mandalorian. Instead of your lips, however, you feel a pressure on your forehead. A soft, plush pressure. He kissed my forehead, you think in disbelief.

Mando could sense your frustration. But he wants to go easy on you since you probably were the most delicate person he’s ever met. To his surprise (and frankly to yours too), you tilt your face up, and press into where you think his lips are. You land on his chin and can practically feel his shock. He closes the gap between you, and Maker, his lips feel so good. An involuntary shiver runs through your body, much to Mando’s delight. Your hands snake around his neck to tug him closer. More. You wanted more.

Mando broke for air before slotting his lips against yours with more fervor. His lips make yours tingle, and you resist the urge to moan. You didn’t know if you were doing a good job or not; all you knew was that you never wanted it to end.

As for Mando, he could barely contain his nerves. You were the first person he’d taken his helmet off around ever. No one on his (short) list of people he’s been intimate with had ever been in the same room as him without his helmet. He knew that his helmet was 100% his sex appeal. The mystery of the man behind the helm drove certain girls crazy apparently. But something about the way you reacted to him made him think differently. Yes, you were probably scared because he was a Mandalorian. But you were equally scared in the dark. However, all that fear went out the window the second he kissed you. You were incredibly receptive to his touches. So sensitive. For his first kiss, he thoroughly enjoyed it too.

Very carefully, he began to ease you backwards. You were slowly laid flat on your bed with Mando on top. Groaning, you open your mouth wider, your tongue gently prodding at his. Mando hisses at the contact and responds in kind. Your hands were fully tugging at his hair by now (not that he minded), and his hands somehow found their way to your hips. The pressure from his weight makes it harder to breathe, but breathing doesn’t really matter right now. Minutes pass (or possibly hours). The kissing only stops when you need air. Eventually, his head lowers down. Past your trembling chin and to your warm neck.

Stars, you were so warm and soft. Mando nudges his nose on the column of your throat, mouth opening to allow teeth to bite gently at the flesh there. You gasp, fingers pulling harder at his hair. You were so mindless with pleasure and sensation, not bothering to notice how utterly restless you were. Grunting, Mando breaks away from your neck and pulls your hands off of him.

“W-why’d you stop?” A calloused hand clasps both of your smaller ones and holds them above your head, your arms stretching to accommodate the new position.

“Stay still,” he orders before diving to attach his mouth to the skin above your collarbone. You winced when he bit down particularly hard, but his tongue soothes the mark after. A moan escapes you when he begins to suck on your skin. Maker, you’d heard stories of pleasure like this, and you never believed them. But now, arms held up by a mysterious bounty hunter in your bedroom, the prospect of losing your virginity never felt more thrilling. His free hand skims your sides, tugging your shirt higher. The cold air on your exposed stomach makes you shiver, but a warm hand glazes over you. Quickly--almost too quickly-- Mando takes off your undergarments and discards it to the side.

The change is definitely nerve-wracking. As if he could sense your inexperience, Mando moves very slowly and carefully. Then a warmth envelopes you right there and wow, everything is so new and exciting and good.

“So--fucking-- so soft,” he groans as he continues his ministrations, stopping sometimes to place tiny kisses over your chest. You could get lost in the feeling for the rest of your life. He peppers in bites then glosses over them with more kisses and touches. His free hand rubs circles on your clenched thighs as if he knows the pleasure and agony he’s putting you through. However, the pressure on your pelvis increases, and Mando’s kisses slow down. As if a weight was placed on his back, Mando buckles down and lies flat on top of you.

“I- are you ok?” You grunt out, unused to the weight. He simply groans in response.

“Sleepy.” Oh. So he was tired.

Annoyed, you pull down your shirt and drag him up the bed in a position next to you. His solid build was too heavy for you to gracefully move, and he was no help either. Kriffing hell, did he really pass out? Were you cockblocked by exhaustion? Well it didn’t really matter now because you had a passed out Mandalorian next to you and a very pressing problem between your legs. The thought of rubbing one out crossed your mind, but the embarrassment from getting caught would outweigh any pleasure. You hold your hands against your blindfold in frustration, deciding to get some sleep. You’d deal with the Mandalorian in the morning.

* * *

The room was bright. Too bright. You shift to your side and face the wall opposite the window and feel an empty space. Wait. With a gasp, you bolt upright to find the room devoid of the Mandalorian. The curtains are pushed open, hence the light, but the window itself is closed. Maybe he didn’t sneak out after all. But one look at your side table had all the proof of his leave.

A bag of credits secures a note with the spare shirt he used to blindfold you next to it. Gingerly, you lift the note. “Thank you for the information. I apologize for leaving without a goodbye.”

Your heart fell to your stomach. He didn’t even say that he would see you again. Pathetic. You were so pathetic. Of course he wouldn’t bother with some random girl he made out with and whose bed he slept in. Maker, you felt so used. You had hoped to see him in the morning, but the universe didn’t want that to happen. It would probably be awkward if he had stayed, though.

Groaning, you step off your bed and test out the door. It opened easily. It seems that Zew’lon really did remove the stuff behind the door since the Mandalorian clearly hadn’t shot it down. You make your way to the fresher and gasp at your reflection in the mirror.

Bite marks. Bite marks everywhere. Bruises littered your neck, the top of your chest, even your breasts. It looked… horrendous actually. The purples and reds mar your skin as if someone tried to literally eat you. But a small part of you swells with pride. The Mandalorian gave you those marks. Last night. In your bed. Even though he’ll probably never come back, you at least had his marks to wear until they faded away.

With a smile on your face, you leave the fresher and get ready for the day, the Mandalorian lingering in the back of your mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters to come hopefully. Reader won't be left high and dry :)
> 
> https://mangobilorian.tumblr.com/


	2. Novelty

Cold. Maker, this is the coldest you’ve ever been in your life. The air bites at your skin, seeping past your flimsy tunic, the clothing rendered useless. You try not to shiver because frankly, you were being overdramatic, but the temperature is the only thing you could focus on. It was either the cold or the dead body at your feet.

Groaning, you close your eyes. Every time you convince yourself to not look, your eyes eventually wander over to the dead Devaronian. He looks so… normal. As if he were simply sleeping. Of course, the blaster shot through his forehead ruins the tranquility.

“Stop looking.” Your head whips up at the Mandalorian’s command. You try to apologize, but no words come out. He just sighs. It’s an annoyed sigh, you can tell. The slight shake of his head, the biting quality of his breath. It stung. But could you blame him? After all, you almost cost him the bounty.

Mando picks up Ras Drun carelessly, hoisting the dead weight over his shoulder before sealing him in some… frost machine. The bounty hunter then heads up the ladder, his feet the last thing you see before he completely ascends. 

Maker, how were you so careless? It was by complete chance that you met the Mandalorian after the… escapade in your bedroom. It was, after all, a fairly small city, and you hung out at the loading ports often. But out of all the possible places you could be at, you had managed to walk right in front of the Mandalorian’s ship just as a shoot-out began. Yes. A shoot out. Mando was the only one issued Ras Drun’s tracking fob and chain code, but he definitely was not the only person after the Devaronian. In fact, over a dozen trained people tracked Ras Drun to your city in the hopes of being the one to blast his head off. Unfortunately for them, Mando didn’t take his bounties personally. While everyone scrambled to have some heroic revenge on the criminal, Mando simply shot him straight blank then proceeded to shoot everyone else who blocked the way to his ship.

One of those people, however, was you. Scared shitless, you had curled into a ball by the closest object (a medium sized crate), and tried to avoid blaster fire. Hopefully, you’d get out of the situation unharmed with a story to tell your parents. But the Mandalorian had other plans. When he saw your trembling, pathetic form, he almost stopped in surprise. When others saw that he wasn’t trying to kill you, they took it upon themselves to aim your way. So Mando hauled you up, his armor blocking the blaster fire, and shoved Ras Drun’s body into your hands.

“Carry him while I get us out of here,” he had shouted, already taking aim and firing. Muted, you began to drag the body to what you assumed was his ship. The fighting didn’t stop until the ramp closed, the ding of blaster fire ringing against the metal. Mando had the ship flying in what felt like seconds. 

And the body of a dead man lay at your feet. Well, it did until Mando froze it. You should be excited right now. At least, that’s what you're telling yourself. You shouldn’t care about the criminal Mando killed, especially since you told him Drun’s information yourself. And you’re finally on a ship for the first time in your life. One step closer to tracing your brother’s steps. The awful brothel girls are gone, the dreariness of that tavern will bore you no more, and the bedroom where you had your first kiss will never remind you of that amazing bounty hunter again. Except… your parents might not see their only remaining child, and you’re now flying through space in said bounty hunter’s ship. 

Gritting your teeth, you rub your arms together, trying to generate some warmth at least. You stand up, knees cracking at being seated for what felt like hours when in reality you’ve only been in hyperspace for twenty minutes max. As you turn to the side, you let out a scream. Startled, you slap a hand over your mouth as the Mandalorian stares at you. Maker, how can someone be so silent when they climb down a ladder? Especially in a full suit of armor? 

“Thank you for saving me,” you say. No response. Instead, he tosses you a shock blanket which you almost drop in embarrassment. “I… thank you again.” He grunts then heads back to what you assume is the cockpit. Alone again. After a few minutes of standing dumbly, you sit down. No use in angering the Mandalorian if you trifled through his stuff. You close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep. Surprisingly, your fatigue catches up, and you nestle deeper into the floor, already forgetting the Devaronian. 

* * *

A solid nudge pushes on your shin. You groan, huddling deeper into the blanket. 

“Get. Up.” A harsh voice commands, the modulator morphing his words. 

Eyes flashing wide, you sit up and see the Mandalorian’s knees. Hastily, you scramble to your feet, not daring to look at his head. 

“We’ve just landed on Catonica. Canto Bight.” You nod, head still fuzzy from sleep. 

“When will I go back home?” He releases a short sigh.

“Not for a while.” He turns to walk away, but foolishly you grab his arm to stop him. Immediately, he yanks his arm out of your grasp and clutches the base of your throat. Not hard enough to cut off your breathing, but still strong enough to make you wheeze. Without a doubt, he could see the faded purple and red marks littering your neck. The marks he left a week earlier. Before, your hair could hide the evidence but standing in a close proximity made the bruises all too clear. He loosens his grip then lets go. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

“Could you teach me to fly?” You both say simultaneously. 

“I- what? Why do you want to fly?” For the first time, you see the Mandalorian confused. You don’t know how to explain it to him. Why do you want to fly? In simple terms: to get off your planet, trace your brother’s steps, and be more than your parents’ financial advisor. You’ve accomplished one of those goals already, but how do you explain the rest? You’d need to launch into your ‘tragic’ backstory for that, a story that would probably bore the Mandalorian. 

“Because… it’s always been my dream to be a pilot. At the very least, I wanted to get off my planet. Thanks to you, I’ve done that. But,” you gulp, eyes averted, “I still want to know how to fly. If you’d teach me, I’d be very grateful.” A minute passes with no response.

“No. I won’t teach you.” He pauses as if he were about to say more, his chest piece rising with another breath. But he simply turns and heads to a cabinet. He opens it to reveal a multitude of weapons. Stars, it was completely excessive to have that many weapons, right? He doesn’t even have enough space on his body to carry that much. 

The Mandalorian takes his pick before closing and locking his armory. He pats himself down like he’s double-checking everything then walks to the exit ramp. 

“Stay here. I’ll be back in a few hours. Here,” he says as he throws a comlink at you. “Only use it for emergencies.” The door opens with a hiss, and he steps onto the ramp. Without another word, he exits the ship, the ramp closing right after. 

Alone. You were alone on the Mandalorian’s ship with nothing to do. At least you weren’t cold anymore. Huffing, you look around. You didn’t get to really observe the interior of the ship. At least you knew where the weapons and the weird freezing capsules were. In the corner was a small cot. Then there were the stairs. Tentatively, you look behind you to ensure that the bounty hunter wasn’t secretly there before climbing up on shaky legs. 

You enter a small room with a door at the end. Probably the cockpit. With careful steps, you nudge the door open and see the controls of the ship. There were three chairs, many lights for the console, and giant windows. From here, all you could see was the gray walls of the port bay Mando had parked at. You could only imagine the view if you looked out while in hyperspace. 

The temptation to sit in the main chair and play pretend was strong. The idea made you giddy, eager to act like a pilot. But the thought of accidentally pressing a button and ruining the ship sent a shiver up your spine. With a sigh, you leave the cockpit in search of cleaning supplies. It was the least you could do. 

* * *

The Mandalorian was tired. With absolutely no leads on his bounty, he had to trudge back to the Razor Crest through the flashy casino city. He did not like Canto Bight, and Canto Bight didn’t like him. Under the bright lights, his dirty armor seemed more prominent. People stepped out of his way, and he wasn’t stopped despite being strapped with guns. They understood his purpose there. Mando couldn’t help the frustration that settled in his gut. He didn’t want to stay on Catonica for too long. Only after catching the fourth and final bounty could he return to Nevarro and receive payment. 

His failure at getting a lead only made him jittery. And in a blitzy city like Canto Bight, he couldn’t simply find criminals to use as target practice. His bones were tired, but stars, he was restless. 

Mando entered the Razor Crest to see spots of blood on the floor. Almost unnoticeable, but he knew what to look for. What the fuck happened? He hurried further to see you wrapping a bandage around your hand, a med pack open at your side. 

“What did you do.” 

“Oh...I tried to clean the ship, but my hand got caught on a sharp piece of metal. Just fixing myself off, don’t worry.” You smile sheepishly. 

“I’m not worried.” Mando observes the way your smile falters, your blink of surprise, and the shift of your face into neutrality. Fuck. He was too tired to deal with placating your emotions right now. He rifles through the med pack and throws a bacta patch at your lap. 

“Thank you,” you mutter but don’t pick up the patch. Maker, he was stupid. Why would you need a bacta patch if you already bandaged yourself? He wasn’t thinking clearly. Instead, all he could think about were the smattering of hickeys lining your throat haphazardly. He knew that if he were to pull your shirt’s neckline down, there’d be even more bruises around your chest. Damn it. All his earlier frustrations went right to his groin the second he laid eyes on your neck. He had to get away from you. But there was nowhere to go on his ship. Maybe the cockpit? He walked towards the ladder but stopped at your voice.

“Mando…? I- I’m really sorry if I’ve offended you. I know that I made life harder for you since you have to deal with me. I never should have been by your ship o-or asked you to teach me to fly,” you ramble on, voice shaky, “And I’m really s-s-sorry about last week. I understand if you think it was a mistake. If you want, you can drop me off at some other p-planet. I’m sure I can find my way back home. And-” 

Mando presses a gloved finger to your lips. He sees the tears gathering at your bottom lash lines, the slight tremble of your lips, the curve of your throat straining to contain your emotions. 

“It’s… alright. My life has always been hard. And… last week wasn’t a mistake.” 

“What? Mand--” he holds up a hand to silence you.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind if we could have a repeat.” Maker, the breath felt like it was knocked out of your chest. He wouldn’t mind? What’s that supposed to mean? Blood rushes to your head. As for Mando… his blood rushes elsewhere. 

He goes through the med pack again, picking up thick bandages. Carefully, he positions them over your eyes, giving you enough time to back away. But you don’t. He leads you to the edge of his cot, the action similar to what happened a week prior.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered through the modulator before leaving to power down all the machines in the hull. After the ship is crowded in darkness, he makes his way back to you, and stands there, simply observing you. Your ankles are crossed, hands folded together in anticipation. He takes off his helmet, the locking mechanism hissing, and sets it down by your feet. He leans in, your warm, shaky breath on his face. Mando slowly captures your lips with his, a small moan escaping your mouth. 

Stars, kissing you always felt good. Your mouth was so pliant under his, willing to do whatever he wanted. He places his hands on your hips as you entangle yours in his hair. You were so soft for him, so pretty, so _willing_.

The longer he kissed you, the more delirious you felt. You jolt when his hands grip your waist then _pull_ you towards him, back arching while your pelvis is that much closer to his. He tugs on your bottom lip with his teeth, biting hard enough to make you wince. His tongue gently runs across the spot where he bit you. 

You tilt your head back for some air, the sound of your combined breathing heavy in the silence. With no sense of sight, everything else becomes so much more amplified. The smell of his armor and sweat overlap with the crippling taste of his mouth on yours. Your teeth knock together when he dives back in for another kiss, the slight pain causing you to pull harder at his hair. 

You try to wrap a leg around his waist but a hand stops you. 

“No,” he rasps. His voice is much fuller, deeper, and undoubtedly sexier without the damn modulator. The hands on your hips travel downward, igniting fire on your thighs. They pull at the flesh there, pinching and prodding, while Mando’s tongue enters your mouth. Kriffing hell, this felt so _good_. If last week had been a dream, today was heaven. His tongue runs over your teeth before swirling around yours. Since when has the Mandalorian been so good at making out? He separates from you, head dipping down to your neck, no doubt to put more bruises there. 

The kisses, the touches, and the caresses filled your head with a buzz. A euphoric, all-encompassing, addicted buzz. All your life, you’ve never felt _wanted_ physically. Always in the shadow of the much prettier, more experienced girls working around you, it was hard to not feel inadequate. The quiver in your voice at confrontation, your hiding behind loose clothes were all plain manifestations of your insecurities. 

Everyone thought you didn’t want attention, but they were dead _wrong_. Maker, you want attention as much as the next person, maybe more so. You ached to feel wanted, especially as a woman. To have caught the eyes of a Mandalorian, one as strong as the man currently kissing your neck, filled you with pride. And an immense urge to show said Mandalorian just how much you could help him. As inexperienced as you were, you would at least show him your enthusiasm. 

Before you could notice, one of Mando’s hands reached your belt. Fumbling with it, you stop him, thumb pressed against his wrist. 

“M-mando,” you gasp, his teeth nipping at your collarbone, fingers still trying to take off your belt. “Mando s-stop.” He clearly doesn’t hear you, and succeeds in unbuckling you. “Mando stop!” As if he were burnt, the bounty hunter jerks away, putting at least a feet between you two. You almost whine at the loss of his warmth.

“I-I’m sorry. I should have asked if that was okay. I didn’t kn-,” he cuts off when you hook a leg around his waist. Finally. Tugging at his wrist, he almost collapses on top of you, but stops his fall with a hand on the cot. “What are you doing?”

“Mando, you don’t need to be sorry,” you whisper. “I just… want to show you my thanks right now.” Tentatively, you try to plant a kiss on the column of his neck, but miss and land on his cheek instead. 

“How will you do that?” His breathing increases slightly, the thought making your head pound. 

“Can I… do this?” You slowly drag your free hand down to the bounty hunter’s waist, gripping at muscle there. “And this…,” your fingertips graze over the tops of his thighs, curving inwards. “What about this?” Gently, you reach out to cup the bulge in his pants. You barely touch it before the Mandalorian grips your hand in his. Tightly.

“I don’t think you know what you’re getting into,” he rasps.

“I know I’m clueless about this stuff. But… I can learn. Please, Mando, will you let me learn?” He sighs, the defeated burst of air answering your question.

“This was supposed to be about you. Not me.” 

“Oh, Mando... You’ve done so much for me. Let me repay you? Let me solve your problem.” Without warning, your hand escapes Mando’s, reaches out to his pants, and _squeezes_ at the hardness there. Mando curses at your boldness, but you're stunned. Stars, he is _hard_ as steel. 

“Still willing to help me?” His head buries into your neck, not kissing or biting. Is he… snuggling against you? No matter, you have another thing to address. 

“Of course,” you purr, attempting to sound sexy, but Mando just chuckles. Face reddening, you reach into his pants. Your fingers fumble around but with Mando’s help, you manage to get his pants down by a few inches. The breathing in your neck only increases, and with that burst of confidence, you grasp him gently. 

Maker, he was… hard but warm. Really kriffing warm. In awe, you simply run a finger down a prominent vein. 

“Maker, grip _harder._ ” You wrap your whole hand around his cock, squeezing as tight as you can. “Fuck, stop. Not _that_ hard. Like this.” He places his hand over yours, then loosens his grip so you can imitate his pressure. He slowly guides your hand up to the base of his cock then down to the very tip. He leads you through that rhythm before letting go. The tip of him is wet with some sort of substance, so you gather it in your fingers.

“Shitttt... yeah. Go faster.” You try to increase the speed of your hand, but there isn’t enough lubrication. 

“You’re too dry,” you complain. He’s hard as fuck, yes, but still a little dry. 

“Spit in your hand,” he groans.

“What? Why-”

“Just do it,” he snarls, hips thrusting into your grasp. You release him, then spit into your palm. Maker, this seems a little gross, but if it brings Mando pleasure, you’ll do it. When you grip him again, the extra lubrication makes it so much easier to glide up and down his shaft.

As you keep up your pace, the bounty hunter steadies your hand, and begins to thrust into your fist. Fast. Stars, he’s going really fast. The warmth, the hardness, the enthusiasm send sparks to your groin. Even though Mando was the one getting a handjob, you felt like the one spiralling into pleasure. 

“M-Mando?” He grunts in response, mind too focused on your small, tight grip. “Do you want to… put it in my mouth?” He stills completely. Fuck. Did you say the wrong thing?

“You really want that?” 

“Yes… please, Mando,” you whine, “ I really want to suck-” he jerks away from your hand then firmly grips your shoulders. He tugs you off the cot and onto your knees, your back arching instinctively. Once your knees touch the cold floor, you try to tug his pants down completely, but the armor covering his thighs stops you. Almost annoyed, Mando rips the armor off, the sound of metal clashing the floor making you cringe. You pull his pants down as far as they can go and blindly reach up his thighs. 

Impatient, the bounty hunter lays his palm on the top of your head, leading you closer to him. After feeling around, you finally grip his pulsing cock, and Mando sighs at the sensation. A sense of dread begins to fill your stomach: a heavy, weighted feeling. Stars, why were you getting nervous _now_? This is what you asked for, right? But your lack of experience makes you question just how well you can do this. Before today you’ve never even seen a naked man, much less have your mouth inches away from a hard cock. You really don’t know what you’re doing. 

Before you can back away, Mando seems to sense your nervousness. He leans down to gently cup your face, his thumb tracing circles on your cheek.

“It’s ok if you want to stop.” Sniffling, you shake your head then realize that he can’t even see you.

“It’s not that. It’s just… I don’t know if I can make you feel good.” The both of you stay silent. 

“Here,” he says as his thumb caresses your bottom lip, “I can teach you.” He pries your lips apart, and his thumb enters your mouth. His finger slides on the top of your teeth, and the rest of his hand widens your mouth. “Ready?” You moan in confirmation.

“Keep your mouth open.” He takes his thumb out and stands up straight. With a nudge from him, you slowly wrap your lips around the tip of his cock. Your mouth widens the deeper you take him until he’s almost to the back of your throat. You choke at the intrusion, and almost pull back all the way, but a reassuring hand holds the back of your head in place.

“Breathe through your nose. Yeah, like that.” You breathe in and out, adjusting to the feeling and weight in your mouth. And the taste. Maker, the taste is… something else. A little bitter and a little salty, you can almost taste the sweat the bounty hunter has built up over the long day. It did not taste as good as you had fantasized, but what else can you expect from someone with no experience? After a full minute of just… keeping the Mandalorian’s dick in your mouth, he begins to get irritated. He shifts his weight around, waiting for you to do something.

“Use your hands, pretty girl. Like before.” You hum in response, and begin to grip at the areas your mouth couldn’t reach. Mando controls your head to bob at a steady pace. With gasp, you break off and spit into your hand before connecting your mouth to his cock, fingers moving at a faster pace. This is what he wanted, right? He moans at your increased fervor, and you mentally high-five yourself at the success.

“Tongue. U-use your tongue,” he groans. You tentatively run your tongue on the underside of him, up and down. “Yeah. Swirl around the-- fuck-- yes, just like that. Around the tip.” 

Emboldened, you trace his tip with your tongue, and the Mandalorian increases his grip on your hair. On instinct, you hollow out your cheeks, forming a sort of suction, and Mando curses.

You try to not get too messy, but your gaping mouth causes drool to slide down your chin. Maker, who knew that blowjobs were so messy? However, the increased lubrication makes it even easier to slide down the bounty hunter’s cock. A thought crosses your mind, and you use a free hand to cup one of Mando’s balls.

He jerks away, almost ripping your hair. You whine at the slight pain.

“Sorry. R-really sensitive there.” You loosen your grip on him, and store that information for later. For now, you simply squeeze him gently and pull downwards. Mando seems to melt on the spot, his moans filling the room. The sound goes straight to your neglected pussy. You don’t mind blowing Mando when you get to hear him like _that_.

As you play with his balls, you still bob your head on his cock, but the ache in your jaw becomes more prominent. How long were you supposed to do this? It’s amazing to see him like this and be the reason behind it, but he has so much _stamina_. Maybe if you go faster, it’ll end sooner. 

You speed up, mouth running up and down Mando’s slick shaft, ignoring the pain in your jaw. Your increased pace makes you gag more often, not the most appealing sound. But to Mando, it seemed like the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. But the Mandalorian seems to sense your discomfort, so he pulls your head away. 

“Just hands for now.” You release his balls in favor of stroking him. Like before, your hand eventually stills so he could thrust into your fist. Unlike before, he’s so much _wetter_. He’s fucking leaking. 

He continues to blurt out obscenities while he uses your hands to pleasure himself. You clench your thighs at the thought. Your tongue still tastes a little bitter, but you’re used to it now. In fact, the idea that you even tasted the Mandalorian’s cock arouses you like nothing else. 

Somehow, you can sense when Mando is close. It’s in the way his breathing becomes heavier, the faster pace, and harder grip on your hair. 

“Can I-- kriff-- can I cum in your mouth, pretty girl?” 

“Yes pleeeease,” you gasp. He sticks the tip in your mouth, then proceeds to stroke himself furiously. Your hands take purchase on his thighs, massaging at the muscles there. You brace yourself for some sort of sign that he’s reaching his climax. Out of nowhere, Mando releases a long groan, and a salty taste hits your tongue.

You cringe instantly at the taste but don’t pull back. Instead, you take more of him in, holding him in your mouth. After he’s done, he begins to pull away, but you stop him. You swallow the liquid in your mouth, gulping down. Mando curses at the feeling. When he tries to pull out again, you let him. Cool air replaces the warmth Mando provided, the drool on your face already beginning to dry.

“Did you really swallow?” You give a noise of confirmation.”Kriffing hell. You’re so good for me. Here,” he reaches down to grab your arms, and pulls you up. Your knees give a pop as they straighten. Without a doubt, they’ll be bruised. He guides you to sit down on the cot. 

“My turn,” he says, dropping to his knees. But a yawn stops him.

“Sorry… I’m just really tired. M-maybe next time?” You lay down all the way, maneuvering yourself so your entire body is stretched across the bed. With the ache between your legs, you’d usually be too high strung to sleep.Yes, it’ll be your second nap, but it’s been a long day, and exhaustion caught up to you again. 

Mando stands back up and just stares at the darkness. He contemplates turning the lights on, but a soft snore from you discourages him. Grunting, he tugs his pants back on, and feels around the floor for his helmet. Grasped in hand, the helmet swings around as he walks to the ‘fresher. He could really use a shower. Before he enters, he turns around, the ‘fresher light illuminating you. Next time.

Next time, it’ll be his turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; this chapter took me sooo long to finish. I rewrote this 3 times before I was even satisfied.  
> Like always, I’d appreciate any feedback you give me. Also, for those who were curious: this Mando is from years before the events of the show. So baby Yoda won’t be in future chapters for now, sorry.  
> Anyway, what would you like to see next? I have a vague plan of what to write, but any suggestions would be welcome.
> 
> https://mangobilorian.tumblr.com/


	3. Flight

“Break my ship, and I’ll leave you on the next backwater planet.” You grit your teeth, fingers gripping the controls. The display swims before your eyes, and you’re too rattled to think straight. 

“I’m  _ trying _ , Mando.” The helmeted man grunts, annoying you further. You try concentrating on the task at hand, but there was too much information to parse through. What did this button do? What about that lever? 

“Try harder.” You open your mouth to retort, but the collision of a small asteroid collides with the ship, hurtling Mando off his feet. The man sighs, and pushes you out of the pilot’s chair, taking back control of the Crest. 

“Does that mean my lesson is over?” You pout and give him your best puppy-dog eyes, but he’s unfazed. 

“Yes.” He steers the ship back to a straight course and maneuvers the two of you out of the small asteroid field. 

“Will there be more?” 

“Maybe.” You huff. You’ve spent about three weeks with the Mandalorian now, and conversation still runs dry. Sometimes, the silence lasts for days before it’s broken, and it’s usually you who speaks first. 

At the start, you’d been too terrified to initiate anything. After all, your relationship with the bounty hunter hinged on sex and your evident lack of confidence. You didn’t mind, but you wanted something more than that. You wanted to learn how to fly. He refused, you begged, he continued to refuse, and you tried swaying him through… other means. It took one space battle, five hyperspace jumps, and a trip to Nevarro to convince Mando to teach you.  _ So you have some use _ , he had muttered. 

But your first lesson just flopped, which was definitely not your fault. Mando thought, for whatever reason, that flying through an asteroid field would be great practice for a beginner. A complaint rested on the tip of your tongue, but you sucked it up in indignation. If Mando wanted to be a bad teacher, then so be it. And… Maker, he was worse than you ever pictured. 

He didn’t even give you enough time to remember what the controls did before launching you into the field. Everytime you got hit, he’d threaten to strand you or cast you out. If you forgot what a button did, he’d mutter a curse like you couldn’t hear it and-

Ugh. You know you’re being too angry. Too unreasonable. You were wrong to place Mando on some pedestal and expect him to be a good teacher. It’s just that… he’s so gentle when he teaches you about other stuff. Like how the body works, what he likes, what  _ you _ like. So it’s hard to reconcile that Mando with one grumbling in his seat next to you. The one who successfully flew the ship out of that field and now plots the next coordinates of a planet he thinks his next bounty is on. 

You can tell, by the sheer amount of bounty pucks Karga gave him, that Mando had a lot of work to do. The fall of the Empire a year prior had shocked some systems while others were left to do business as usual. In the wake of government upheaval, people who thought they were safe under the Empire suddenly had targets painted across their foreheads. And those who previously hid and ran found themselves with a blaster in hand. You wonder where Mando stood on the spectrum. Was he a mere enforcer? Working for money or maybe to leave a tragic past behind? Or did he like bloodshed and found a job to fulfill that desire? Some bounty hunters even catered to certain types of jobs. Stories of Boba Fett filtered into your parents’ tavern often enough for you to know he made a living off of the Empire. But Mando didn’t seem like the kind of person to eat at the feet of moffs. 

His helmet reflects the hyperspace beams, taking the light and pushing it backwards. It’s like the way he dodges all your personal questions. 

“Done staring?” Mando doesn’t look at you.

“I wasn’t staring.” He snorts, not bothering to reply. Maker, he gets on your nerves sometimes. You just want him to  _ talk _ to you and that’s the last thing he wants to do. You always had someone to talk to for the majority of your life. By default, you were shy and insecure, but you had your brother, your parents, your friends at the spaceport. And now? You had one grumpy (but very hot) bounty hunter. 

“If you want something, spill it. We’re almost to Tatooine, and you look like you’re going to burst.” 

“I do  _ not _ -” 

“Save it. Now tell me.” The two of you sit in silence once more. 

“Why are you so blunt all the time?” 

“If you have a problem with me, I’ll drop you off when we land.” You grit your teeth. He’s  _ always _ deflecting your questions. He makes every question about you and not about himself and it’s so. Kriffing. Irritating. 

“I just asked ‘why are you so blunt.’ I didn’t say ‘I have a problem with you, Mando.’” He grunts in reply. As if that answers all your questions. “So you’re not going to-” 

“Why are you so curious all of a sudden? You didn’t have a problem before,” he says. Mando doesn’t sound as angry as you expected. It’s like he’s genuinely interested… and well, you don’t really know how to answer him.

Why  _ were _ you so angry and irritated? Three weeks with the man and it’s all bubbling up now? The time you spent with Mando is usually in pleasant silence or complete darkness, so you don't know why you decided it was “Be an Ass to Mando Day.”

“If this is about me teaching you, then don’t worry. I’ll still help you fly.” You snap your head up to him. 

“N-no this has nothing to do with that-”

“Stop stuttering. I thought we went over this-”

“Stop deflecting everything-”

“Get a grip of yourself.” You close your mouth at Mando’s command. He wheels his chair to face you, and your knees almost touch his. Even though you don’t know what he looks like, you can probably imagine how irritated he is. Scrunched brows, downturned lips- 

“I’m sorry. It’s just,” you breathe out, struggling to figure out what to say. “I’m… really on edge? Right now?” Mando tilts his helmet in the equivalent of an eyebrow raise. 

“On edge?” He repeats. You nod, forcing a reassuring smile. Only it probably looks like a grimace because Mando sighs the same sigh he gives you when you accidentally injure yourself. 

“Like I’m all jittery and stuff. And not because I just had my first flying lesson which was cool and scary and- anyway. It’s like my heart is beating too fast and I just need to do  _ something _ .” The bounty hunter gives you a simple hum as if he understands everything you said. 

“You’ve got cabin fever,” he says, propping a hand under a chin. At your confused expression, he continues on. “You’ve been stuck in the ship for too long and need an outlet. Flying only made you more… ansty.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes. You weren’t  _ antsy, _ and Mando acts as if he can just diagnose you with whatever. 

“I don’t have cabin fever,” you pout, “but if I did, how can I fix it?” 

“Physical activity would do the trick.” The sneaky bounty hunter. You  _ know _ he’s smirking under there. He’s trying to bait you, but you won’t fall for it. 

“Like what?” 

“You tell me,” he says, titling his helmet. Ugh. You’ve come to know one fact about Mando: he’s stubborn. Instead of snapping back, you resign yourself to steady breaths. Let the man look at you and see the picture of calm. You close your eyes for an extra effect. 

But your stoic facade does little to placate the thrumming in your blood. You  _ are _ on edge, and you don’t really know why. Cabin fever might be the answer, but you’re doubtful. You survived being cooped on your home planet even though you desperately wanted to leave. You survived managing your parents’ tavern despite hating the work there. So the idea that being stuck on a ship—something you  _ ached _ to do since your brother became a pilot—seemed a tad ludicrous. And yet, the undying urge to move and do  _ something _ rests in every blood vessel and every nerve cell in your body. 

Maybe the answer lies in why you were so angry at Mando. He was the worst teacher you’ve ever had, but that isn’t a reason to be livid. Of course you felt disappointed at the lesson being cut short, even a little sad at the prospect of you being a bad pilot. But you held out hope that you will improve your piloting when Mando improves his teaching. That still doesn’t warrant how frustrated you were with his silence. Three weeks seems like enough time to get used to him not talking. 

You respect him enough to allow him to be quiet, but you  _ loved _ it when he did talk. Because when he talked, it was about easy things like the difficulties of his job. How certain criminals gravitate towards specific planets. How some bounties were better dead than alive despite the order going either way. You especially loved it when he whispered praises, little moans in your ear—telling you to be more confident and to stop stuttering. His breathy grunts when you wrapped your mouth-

Maker, did the heat in the cockpit go up for some reason? Mando had wheeled his chair to face front once again, and you had spent the last few minutes… thinking. Very hard about your situation, yet you don’t have a conclusion. Or maybe you did reach an answer and were avoiding it because of one glaring reason: you were still a virgin. 

That singular thought is enough for you to visibly cringe. Thankfully, Mando doesn’t notice. From this angle, you can see the flash of Mando’s bare wrist, and almost sigh wistfully. It’s always a pleasant surprise to be reminded that Mando is Human. A peek of bare skin is enough to send a tingle down your spine. Imagine what the rest of him looks like- You air out your shirt and stand up, leaving the cockpit.

Once you descend the ladder and are finally away from the bounty hunter’s shiny helmet, you slump on the bed. With a sigh, you bury your face in your hands and just… melt. Into a blob of feelings and nervousness. 

You didn’t know what to expect really. Well, that’s not true. You expected kissing then oral sex then ‘real’ sex. Instead, you received a lot of kissing and a lot of oral—seriously, Mando’s obsession with eating you out isn’t bad, just surprising— but you’re still a virgin. With a big capital ‘V’. 

Some part of you wonders whether you’re the one who’s holding yourself back. That your nervousness is tangible enough for Mando to notice and give you space. Your confidence was a smattering of puzzle pieces, and Mando helped you put it together. He knew how fractured, how fragile you used to be, and probably didn’t want to push you. 

Yet another, darker part of you considers the idea that Mando didn’t actually want to have sex with you. As if you were some poor girl he took pity on and decided to pleasure a little bit, but he didn’t want the emotional baggage that came with actual sex. Not that you  _ wanted _ emotional baggage but-

You groan in frustration. The more you think, the more conflicted you get. It’s easy to admit—after all your inner monologues— that you’re on edge because of how much you want to jump Mando’s bones. Kriff, a look at his bare wrist was enough to get you hot and bothered. Yet the nagging fear of whether or not he reciprocates your desire still tugs at your chest. Maybe he would strand you on Tatooine. Maybe he was just waiting for the right moment to leave you without it weighing on his moral compass. He never said how long you’d be allowed to stay. Maker, what  _ would _ you do if you were alone? What would you eat, where would you live, how-

“Are you in a crisis?” You snap your head up to the helmeted man leaning against the opposite wall. When did he even get there? 

“W-what? No. Just thinking about my supposed cabin fever.” 

“Yeah? And how did that work out?” Mando crosses his arms, bending a knee to place a foot against the wall. And he looks too damn intimidating, too wide, and much too hot.

“Um… I don’t think I have it?” He snorts in a  _ yeah right _ sort of way. 

“You say that but you look like you swallowed poodoo. Very attractive.” 

“Do you mean that?” You blurt out, mind too fried to filter your words.

“That you’re attractive? Yeah.”

“Oh.” There must be something about your expression because Mando pushes off the wall to grasp your chin. 

“You still doubt yourself?” Your lack of response is enough for Mando to sigh and nudge your legs apart. He’s fully in your space now. Mando traps himself between your thighs, but you feel like the one who’s caged in. “I thought I told you that already.” 

“It’s kinda hard to stop being insecure after-” 

“Well, it’s not my job to make you more confident, is it?” And those were the words you did  _ not _ want to hear. He’s right; it’s not his job to help you at all, and you knew it. At your silence, Mando pushes himself even deeper into your space, leaning over you so you’re forced to look up or collide with his chest. “I didn’t mean it like that… look, if you’re going to sulk-”

“I’m not sulking. I just-” you sigh, unsure if you should stop speaking now or get it all off your chest. “Do you even want me here?” He pulls back. 

“What? If I didn’t want you, you’d be long gone.” 

“Then why…,” the words dry up like cotton in your mouth. “Then why don’t we do anything… more?” You gesture between the two of you. “Intimate?” You cringe at the wording, but there’s nothing else to say.

“So this was about sex then? I thought you liked it.” Just a touch of hurt lingered in his words, making guilt worm into your chest. 

“I  _ do _ . But we haven’t done um… ‘real sex’?” Maker, if someone stabbed you before you opened your mouth again, you’d thank them. Maybe Mando could do it. 

He lets out a snort. “I didn’t initiate anything because I thought you’d be too scared. Not because I don’t want to. I do,” he says, voice tapering out to a whisper. Oh. So your fear was misplaced, and the rational part of your brain was right all along. Mando wasn’t going to kick you out, and he  _ did _ want you and-

“Here,” he says, pushing you back to lie on the bed. “If you think you’re ready, we can do this now.” 

“Now?” Your heart stutters at the thought, fast enough and erratic enough for you to hear it. 

“You’re too wound up. Seems like the solution is ‘real sex’.” You groan in embarrassment. Well. Sure. “I’ll turn off the lights.” Mando leaves you, and everything becomes too real. You’re definitely unprepared for this moment despite craving it for the last few weeks—actually for the past month; you’ve wanted this since the first encounter in your bedroom. 

The hull descends to darkness. Stars, how will this even work? You hope you don’t make a fool of yourself. Scenarios of you fumbling or messing up flash through your mind, making you cringe. How does one even ‘mess up’ at sex? 

“Relax. You think too loud,” Mando says, a few feet away. You release a breath, nodding to yourself. You can relax. Just breathe in and out and- 

Mando places a hand on your shoulder. “Come here.” He leans in and your breath mixes with his, hot and airy. A  _ clunk _ rings by your feet, the sound sending vibrations to your head. You trace up his sides, removing his armor piece by piece. You could do this. It was all part of the routine. Just as you loosen his pauldrons and Mando drops them to the floor, he presses his lips to yours. Now  _ this _ is what you were used to. The steady rhythm of his mouth, the tentative tongue already swiping past your lips. 

As soon as his armor is all gone, a hand clutches the back of your neck and another makes its way up your thigh. Mando presses deeper into the kiss, forcing your head backwards as he bends further down. The hand on your thigh reaches the zipper of your pants and unzips it. 

The bounty hunter discarded the glove on that hand some time ago, but worn down leather still touches the nape of your neck. Pulling away for a second, Mando tugs your pants down, and you push off the bed to allow for it to slip past your ass. Just as he’s about to reclaim your mouth, Mando takes his hand off your neck and glides a gloved finger on your lips. He doesn’t need to talk for you to understand what he wants. 

You bite the tip of the glove and yank it off his hand. You drop it to the side, and pull Mando into your arms. He relents and kisses you once again. A hand rubs small circles on your chest then  _ grasps _ the soft cushion of your breasts. He muffles your sound of surprise with his lips, his hands squeezing in an erratic pattern. The more he touches you, the more he enters your space, the more you lose yourself in his hazy spell. You always wonder if the blissed-out feeling usually accompanies kissing and sex or if it’s a Mando thing. 

He pulls back and sinks to his knees. Nudging your thighs further apart, Mando reaches a hand up to your mouth. Without a word, you suck his thumb, making sure to get it as wet as possible. It’s messy, saliva dripping down your lips, tongue swirling dirtily. He tastes like smoke and salt. 

You hear a murmur of “good girl” below you as Mando takes his finger and glides it over your center. You moan at the contact, relieved to finally be touched. He presses a soft kiss on your thigh, still gently rubbing his thumb over  _ that _ spot and-

The bounty hunter takes his hand off and nuzzles against you. Without warning, he licks a stripe along the length of your now-throbbing pussy. Stars, even though he eats you out often, you still feel like it’s the first time. The same lightning that zaps through your body now is exactly like the one that hurtled through you when Mando first placed his tongue on you. 

He laps at you a few more times before taking your clit in his mouth and  _ sucking _ . Without his lips on yours, nothing stops a groan from escaping you. Mando presses a hand on your stomach and nudges you backward. You let him push you, and lie flat on the bed. Beads of sweat already build on your brow, the temperature of the room rising. He continues sucking, the pleasure muffling every coherent thought. Only one thing bounces around in your mind:  _ more _ . 

Your hands grasp at his hair, a familiar feeling, and tug. Mando simply grunts and you feel something graze the inside of your thighs. Slowly—too slow, actually—one of Mando’s fingers enters you. 

“M-Mando,” you gasp, pushing your pelvis closer to him. He’s being too careful with you, and you just. Want. More. 

“Calm down,” he says, but you tug at his hair harder. He begins to move his finger in and out, but it’s not nearly enough to satisfy you. After a few excruciating minutes—or maybe seconds; time seems to slow when you’re with Mando— he pushes another finger in. The sensation of his mouth on your clit, of his fingers thrusting into you, encases your head in a cloud. Lewd, wet sounds echo around the dark hull. You can feel Mando’s groans against you, the vibrations of his breath and words sending you spiraling. 

At this moment, Mando is the only one who exists. He lives in your head, in your body: a puppeteer who controls every move. You can feel Mando curl his fingers, aiming for that one spot. A warm, heavy coil builds in your stomach. As Mando continues his ministrations, his torture, the coil tenses and tigthens until- 

It snaps, like a sparkler on Life Day, and the darkness behind your eyelids bursts into colors you can’t describe. You gasp at the feeling, finger desperately pulling on Mando’s strands. Little murmurs of affection and praise echo from below, and you take the time to slow your breathing. He doesn’t pull away yet, and his breaths are almost enough to drive you to overstimulation. You have to plead to get him to back off. 

“Ready?” You nod, then realize Mando can’t actually see you. 

“Mmm, yeah,” you say, releasing your hold on his hair in favor of the sheets below. You hear a rustling of clothes, probably his pants and under shirt. He must have tossed it on the floor, leaving him completely bare. When you reach a hand out, you’re met with a searing hot torso. 

Hands grab your hips and tug you forward. Something hard and blunt and warm presses up against you. Maker, this is it. The moment that’s building up for a month. The moment that exists in your fantasies at night when you try to muffle your moans, fingering yourself to the thought of the bounty hunter. The moment that you daydream about when you watch Mando pilot the Crest or clean his blasters. 

You shut your eyes despite being in total darkness. Mando slicks his cock with your wetness before pushing in, just barely entering you. The slight contact is enough to send tingles to your throbbing clit, already stimulated and aching. He props a hand next to your head, and you feel the warmth of his body hover over yours. 

“I’ll go slow,” he breathes out. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, and Mando pushes in a bit deeper. The head enters then the rest of his twitching cock. Inch by inch he slides in, using your wetness as lubricant. 

It’s… an odd sensation. He’s much thicker than anything you’ve had inside you—much warmer too. The stretch is expected, and it stings a little bit, but Mando prepped you enough. You hear little grunts from above you as Mando bottoms out. You squeeze without thinking, and Mando swears. 

You feel more full than ever. It’s one thing to have Mando’s cock in your mouth and get used to the feeling of him pushing at the back of your throat, of you gasping for air in one breath and moaning around him in another. It’s an entirely different feeling to have that same cock  _ inside _ of you, hard and pulsing. 

“Are you… ok?” You’re more than fine, but it feels like something is missing. 

“Yeah. Umm… is it supposed to feel like this?” 

He snorts. “Like what?” He says, then retracts his hips a bit before thrusting into you. It feels like a blunt stab, and you gasp—more out of surprise than real pain. “Too soon?” 

“N-no. Just continue.” He begins to thrust shallowly, setting a steady pace. Mando’s hand skims up your side, warm and soothing. He traces up your ribs, your neck, and settles on your face. Still thrusting, he leans down to kiss you again. 

It feels a little better this way. His mouth on yours, delivering you another dose of endorphins while he takes his pleasure from you. It feels… good to be filled up by Mando. He satisfies your craving, but there’s a lack of something  _ more _ . You didn’t know what to expect when you finally lost your virginity. Maybe a feeling akin to fireworks bursting in your chest or an explosion of pleasure enough to orgasm at entry alone. It seems like your fantasies were just that. Fantasies. 

“Does it… feel good?” Mando asks, a nervous hint in his voice. Maker, you’ve been so caught up in your own anxiety that you didn’t think about how  _ he _ would feel.

“Yeah,” you say, but you both know it’s a lie. Mando leans back, cock halfway inside. He pulls out so only the tip is in then he thrusts, hard enough for you to gasp but the feeling is different, like-

As Mando thrusts, two of his fingers rub tiny circles over your clit and that… that makes all the difference. A dam of nerves and anxiety and unmet expectations falls away to reveal the mounting pleasure beneath. This time, when you moan, it’s real. 

He resumes his position above you, his arm between your bodies, thrusting at a steady pace. Every time he enters you, a bolt of pleasure accompanies the sensation. The cloud that encloses around your head when he kisses you returns, once again rendering you at the mercy of the bounty hunter. 

Even with the penetration and the extra stimulation, it’s not enough. The comfortable, seductive coil in your stomach stays curled, not yet satisfied to unfurl and snap. 

“M-more,” you groan. Mando presses a small kiss on your brow, and you feel him retract then push in. He goes at a steady pace, harder and faster than before. But it’s still not enough. You blindly reach up for him, desperate for more contact. Something hungry takes up residence in your body, and only one thing will satiate it. 

“Please-ugh-Mando,  _ more _ ,” you beg. You need more of him. Of his hand rubbing your clit, of his thick cock thrusting deeper. The bounty hunter doesn’t speak, electing to grunt instead, but he does increase his pace once more. To a pace bordering on bruising. On fucking. Now  _ this _ is what you fantasized about. Not the sweet, gentle way you imagined most people lose their virginities—something that wasn’t bad, but Mando was a kriffing bounty hunter. You want him to be rough. 

Instead of kissing you, a hot mouth closes in one of your nipples. In the same way he sucked your clit before, Mando pours the same energy into your breast. His mouth is wet and warm and too many of your nerves are wired with pleasure. His pace is hard enough that your breasts bounce at the movement, your entire body pliant and open for the bounty hunter. 

The mouth on your chest, the finger on your clit, the  _ bruising _ thrusts wreck your body to the point where you’re starting to consider how you’ll make it out alive. Mando releases his hold on your chest, opting to grasp your hips instead. His grip digs into the soft skin of your hips, and you know it will bruise. 

The new angle changes his thrusts from a simple in and out to a  _ bam-bam-bam _ downwards. The hands on your hips curl around to the back of your thighs and hoist you up, your lower back and pelvis rising off the bed. Wet, filthy sounds of your coupling mix with choked-off moans and gruttal groans. You grow more delirious by the moment, and you can’t even move against him. 

“So  _ fucking _ good for me,” he grunts. “My little pilot,” he says, pounding into you. “Feels good now, huh,” he chuckles darkly. Your brain is too frazzled to respond with anything but moans. 

“You always want  _ more _ ,” he enunciates with a particularly hard thrust. 

You wrap your legs around Mando’s waist, trapping him in place. He can’t pull out as much, so he grinds into you instead. The thrusts are shallower but just as hard, just as overpowering as before. For a second, you wonder if you should do more but realize you don’t even know  _ what  _ to do. So you let Mando take your willing body, eager for every thrust, every kiss. 

The pressure in your stomach picks up heat, garnering more pleasure each passing second. You grasp at his arms, nails dragging down the length of his forearms. 

“S-so good,” you mewl, too lost in the moment, already drowning in his arms. 

“Are you,” he huffs, “close?” You moan in reply, stomach clenching in anticipation. The smell of sweat, metal, and sex permeate the air, creating a an almost suffocating haze. The fingers on your clit speed up, losing their careful, controlled motions. It’s messier, hungrier. The almost painful tension in your belly holds out, rising and aching, greedy for a little more-

You cry out, back arching off the bed, relying solely on Mando’s hold on your legs. For a brief moment, you can’t hear anything but crashing static, consumed by the feeling of being so  _ full _ . You squeeze tightly, hugging every inch of Mando’s cock. He continues shallow, softer thrusts as your pussy pulses around him, wet and hot. 

Your body goes limp, and Mando sets you back down to lay flat on the bed. He thrusts one, two more times before pulling out. You still feel dizzy and disoriented, barley registering Mando jacking himself on top of you. For a moment, you hear him gasp, a strangulated sound, then something wet and warm lands on your stomach. 

He continues rubbing himself until he’s completely drained, choked moans escaping his lips. You hear him move away and pick something off the floor then feel fabric wiping across your belly. In the aftermath, you suddenly feel clammy and sweaty and tired. Like all your exhaustion halted in the heat of the moment then decided to spring up on you once the high of an orgasm left your body. 

Mando nudges you aside and joins you in the cramped bed. The heat his body emanates is inviting, but you’re too sweaty to even consider snuggling up to the bounty hunter. Besides, cuddling seems too intimate, too revealing. You rest in silence, feeling the lingering sparks in your veins die out, replaced by a comforting warmth. Despite being completely drained, you could also conquer the galaxy in your blissed-out post-sex euphoria. 

“Good?” You turn your head to Mando in the darkness. 

“Yeah. Thank you.” It’s the truth. You’ve never felt this good in your life. Losing your virginity to the bounty hunter fell short of your expectations at first, only to surge higher than you ever imagined. If someone else were to take your first time, would it feel the same? Would you be this pleased after it all ended? Or, is it all a special Mando thing? One man, whose name and face you don’t even know, providing you comfort and pleasure... 

“You’ll have another lesson tomorrow,” he says. You grin to yourself. Another shot at your ambition. You don’t thank him; he understands how grateful you are for everything he’s done. So you close your eyes and try to sleep. Mando mutters something, and you don’t quite catch it. Maybe you’ll ask him tomorrow. 

The weariness in your bones cradles you like a blanket then drags you under. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aghh sorry for taking so long to update. Not too much plot action in this chapter, but an actual plot is definitely forming hehe ;) I wanted to provide some context about the timeline, which will be important later. The internet says the show takes place 5 years after ep 6, so the fic is 4 years before the show. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!
> 
> https://mangobilorian.tumblr.com/


	4. Desert

You’re sweating. Which shouldn’t be concerning, but space is  _ cold _ . The Razor Crest becomes especially cold, the metal walls cool to the touch. You move a bit, and find that you’re trapped under a heavy arm. Mando. With a grunt, you try to wiggle out of his grasp, but he only pulls you tighter to his chest. 

“Where are you going?” His voice is… so  _ attractive _ like this. Deep, raspy, unfiltered. 

“You’re heavy,” you say, still trying to free yourself. “Why aren’t you flying? Did we land?” Mando groans. 

“Yeah. We’re on Tatooine already.” Oh. That’s why you’re sweating. Of course, the extremely hot bounty hunter contributed most of the heat, but it’s usually not  _ this _ warm in the Crest. 

“How long-” Mando cuts you off by loosening his hold, only to roll over and brace himself on top of you. He supports the majority of his own weight, but your chests still touch. 

Mando leans over and presses a kiss to your lips and you reciprocate with fervor. You feel a hand caress your sides, drawing slow circles across your waist. 

“You up for another round?” The idea is arousing, but… no. 

“I’m too sore,” you pout even though he can’t see. Already, the ache between your legs is noticeable and annoying enough that you don’t want to worsen it. When Mando said that Tatooine wasn’t far, it was an understatement. The trip took about three and a half days. Most of which was spent underneath (and sometimes on top) of Mando, learning about how your bodies worked together and figuring out what you liked. It also meant that while your experience increased tenfold, you were now  _ extremely _ sore and needed a little break. 

Mando sighs disappointedly and kisses you again. It’s comforting to have his body pressed against yours, just kissing slowly and languidly like you’re two people in the galaxy who like each other.

Sadly, all good things must come to an end. Mando pushes off from you, and gets off the bed. You hear the clang of clothes and metal. You close your eyes again, content to stay on the verge of sleep. With Mando gone, the oppressive heat from before lessens, and you let the relief wash over you. The lulling pull of sleep sings at you, and you’re tempted to accept. 

Except the lights in the Razor Crest turn on, and your sleep is shattered. Mando steps into view, his underclothes and helmet on, but nothing else. He stares at you, and you realize that you’re still naked. You fumble to cover yourself—a useless endeavor—when he turns around to give you some privacy. 

“I’m heading out soon. Want to come?” What? Mando never asks you to tag along with him, always claiming that it’s too dangerous. And it  _ is _ dangerous. Tatooine is in Hutt space, and for him to invite you along is suspicious. However, the idea of seeing another planet is alluring. You realize that Tatooine would be the second planet you’ve ever been on, another step into finding out about your brother. And while the odds are slim that you’ll get any clue at all, you have a good feeling about the whole trip. 

“I asked because you had cabin fever. Now come on,” he gestures in mock irritation, not waiting for a reply. You smile and reach for some clothes. 

* * *

Tatooine is a brutal place. Sand gets  _ everywhere _ —in your hair, your clothes, even in your eyes. You have to pull the top of your shirt over your lips to stop sand from entering your mouth and nose too. For the first time, you envy the Mandalorian. His helmet protects him from the slap of sand that rides the winds. However, wearing all that armor in the heat evens it out. He’s probably baking underneath. 

Mos Eisley is both exactly the same and completely different from your home city. The familiar feeling of crime and villainy permeates the air, and there’s a buzzing tension in your bones. Call it nerves or excitement or maybe fear, but you  _ feel _ different. Like something big is about to happen or the status quo will snap and the galaxy will be upturned. The first time you had this feeling, you received news of your brother’s death. The second time, the Empire collapsed.

Upon arriving at the spaceport, rows of bloody Stormtrooper helmets impaled on sticks greet you. The visceral sight reminds you, for a brief second, that violence and bloodshed are very real in the galaxy, and they’re very real on Tatooine. If you pay attention, you notice the small collars around young women, the scarred faces of old men. Slaves, you realize. Tatooine still had slaves— all Hutt planets did. Of all the planets Mando had to drag you to, did it really have to be this?

You enter a cantina, and Mando ushers you into a booth. He talks to the bartender for a little bit, probably gathering some information. The place reminds you of your parents’ bar, much dirtier and cheaper but the concept stands. If you squint, you can see hands ready on blasters, women whispering in men’s ears. Mando looks like he belongs, his very stance screaming confidence and threat. Everyone parts for him, fear evident in their eyes, and you realize that this is the first time you’ve seen him working. Granted, your first interaction involved spilling information about Ras Drun, but the Mando then is different from the Mando now. At least you think so. 

The band plays some jaunty tune, one you haven’t heard since you were young. People chatter about, already drunk despite it being midday. The air smells musty and feels slightly sticky. But right in the midst of it all, you can feel the stringy tension of anticipation. 

Mando slides in next to you with a drink in hand. He pushes it over, and you glance at it. It’s some orange drink— bubbly and cold. Hesitantly, you bring the glass to your lips. You try not to cringe, but… it tastes  _ awful _ . Bitter and salty at the same time. It tasted like something pissed in your mouth. At least it’s cold. 

“How much did this even  _ cost _ ?” You sputter, pushing the drink away. Mando chuckles. “Please tell me it wasn’t more than three credits?” Paying any money at all for the drink seems like a bad idea. 

“Imperial credits don’t work here. Besides, it’s cold. Enjoy it.” He grabs the glass and sets it directly in front of you. You give him the biggest pout you can muster and take another sip, wincing the whole time. If you ignore the taste, you can enjoy the cooling, refreshing effect. Except the taste can  _ not _ be ignored, so you were stuck with a piss drink. Despite the atrocious taste, part of you relishes in the fact that Mando bought the drink for you. 

“Thank you,” you say, wishing you had shown some gratitude before you insulted his gift. The bounty hunter simply snorts, the sound distorted and tinny, looking away to observe the busy cantina. “What about you? Are you gonna get something?” 

“Helmet,” he says, and points at his head. Oh. Right… 

Your face grows even hotter, and a traitorous bead of sweat slides down your spine. You laugh off your mistake, and Mando places an arm around your shoulder, helmet tilted away from you. The weight and added heat of his body would be enough for you to complain, but you don’t. You… kind of like it. It feels comfortable to be like this— pressed against the bounty hunter’s side, protected by the most dangerous man in the cantina. He looks so intimidating and strong that it hurts your chest. You decide to pity his enemies; you can’t imagine having to face him on a hunt. 

Without any words, you survive another sip of the disgusting drink and press further into Mando. He jolts for a brief second and tightens his grip around you. A flicker of confidence surges through you, and you place a hand on his armor-plated thigh. He tenses under your touch, a small sound of surprise filtering through his helmet. 

Emboldened, you drag your hand upwards— to the space above the armor plate where thick fabric is the only thing between you and the bounty hunter. Just as you touch him, Mando shoots out and grabs your hand. 

“What are you doing?” You turn your head away from Mando and towards the wall. His fingers still grip your wrist, but he lets go when you don’t respond. Once your hand returns to its initial position, you squeeze gently. 

The strong muscle is still tense, and you don’t think anything you do will make him relax. Slowly, you curve your hands inwards, toward the apex of his thighs. You see Mando raise a hand, preparing to stop you, but he doesn’t.

It’s exciting, you think, as you edge closer to the fabric covering Mando’s cock. The idea of touching him, stroking him in a place as public and dirty as a Tatooine cantina should be embarrassing and disturbing. But it’s not. The idea excites you very much, and it probably excites Mando too if his lack of complaint is anything to go by. You wonder what he would do if you slip underneath the table. Would he stop you then? Or would he tangle his gloved fingers in your hair and watch as you graze a tongue over his head and suck his length into your mouth? 

For now, you settle with gentle touches. Mando doesn’t move, even when you squeeze a little bit. His cock hardens under your touch, and he drops his arm around your shoulders to nestle around your waist, gloved fingers tracing circles and random shapes. 

This feels right, you realize. As dirty as it is—really, you would never entertain the idea of giving Mando a handjob in a crowded cantina— you enjoy the ordeal, the teasing. You apply harder pressure on his cock, not enough to hurt but enough to show that you were eager. It’s a Mando thing, you decide. He’s the reason you’re acting so different from the girl he found a month ago. 

You sneak a look at the bounty hunter, fingers already reaching for his zipper. Your hand touches metal, and you’re ready to pull down. But something catches your eye, and you look past Mando. There, sitting in a booth on the opposite side of the cantina, is a man. He’s handsome in a dark, rugged way, probably a local. And he’s staring at you with open recognition, and you shiver despite the heat. 

You take your hand away, deciding to look elsewhere and rub your arms for some warmth. Mando jostles around and looks to where you were staring at moments ago. You expect to see the man sitting there and hope his gaze is somewhere else. But he’s gone. As if he was a figment of your imagination. 

“What’s wrong?” Mando asks, squeezing your waist. “Everything all right?” You nod, eyes transfixed on the now-empty booth. The drive to pleasure Mando is completely gone now as well as your budding arousal, and you hope he isn’t too put off by being teased. Thankfully, Mando takes your silence and doesn’t push. 

Something in your gut tells you to move. Tells you that the anticipation in the air is  _ so close _ to reaching a conclusion. You take one last sip of the drink and shimmy away from Mando. 

“Going to the ‘fresher,” you say, as normally as you can. Mando nods and gestures at the refresher’s direction. He starts to step out of the booth, but you stop him. With careful movements, you manage to squeeze between Mando and the table. After one last look at his helmet, you head to the ‘fresher. 

It’s down some dark hallway, illuminated by one flickering light source embedded into the wall. You want to run away and go back to Mando, but you  _ need _ to figure something out. You need answers. 

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

You whip around and see the man from earlier. He’s older than you by a few years probably, but he would still be considered young. Yet he looks like someone who suffered through war and other tragedies. You should be scared, you think. You’re a girl by herself and he’s an older man yet… 

“Who are you?” He shakes his head, lips set in a grim line. 

“A friend of a friend. I… I never would’ve expected to see you here.” You frown. Who  _ is  _ this man? Scared or not, you’re creeped out by the fact that he knows you. 

“What do you mean?” He sighs, and walks forward. You realize that he’s been walking ahead the whole time, and your back almost touches the back wall. He looks dazed, staring in your direction but not exactly at you. “ _ Please _ . I don’t know who you are.” 

Over his shoulder, you see Mando’s looming silhouette. He storms over and grabs the man by the back of his shirt, a blaster pressed to his head. 

“Who are you?” Mando growls. The sheer aggression makes you back further into the wall. You have to remind yourself that Mando is not here to hurt you. He’s here for-

“Wait! Mando, don’t-” But the bounty hunter doesn’t listen, and he slams the man into the wall. Before Mando can do anymore harm, the man gasps, forced out of his earlier daze. 

“I knew your brother!” He says, and everything stills. The air crackles like static, and the string of anticipation  _ snaps _ with fervor. At your paralyzed state, Mando releases the man who sags against the wall. “He is- was a good friend of mine. I know who you are because he showed me holos of you. I never thought I’d see you. H-he always talked about you. He loved you very much. He was my best friend,” the man blabbers. The words wash over you. He knew your brother.  _ He knew your brother _ .

“Were you there? When he died?” The man stops talking and looks at you with a certain kind of heavy sadness. 

“Yes,” he whispers. “I was there when the Empire shot down your brother. He sacrificed many things for the Rebel Alliance.” Your brother… was a rebel? The Empire killed him? No, that’s not possible. He was just a simple pilot who traveled for fun or carried cargo sometimes. He wasn’t a  _ rebel _ . 

_ But he was _ , a traitorous voice whispers.  _ And this man knew him _ . 

* * *

When the man, Crix Kilis, brought you and Mando to his house, you didn’t expect it to be a farm. A moisture farm actually. The idea boggled you for a bit—you’ve never thought about planets where people had to harvest water from the air. The farm itself is quite small, with architecture you’ve never seen before. 

The ride to his farm was uneventful. Mando had glared at Crix when he suggested going to his place and even dragged you aside for a moment. 

“You really trust this guy?” 

“He knew my brother. Our meeting wasn’t a coincidence.” He grumbled something that you couldn’t hear, but you weren’t really paying attention. Most of your mind was set on the fact that you finally had a clue to your brother’s life. Granted, you weren’t searching very hard. You thought you’d know how to fly and be out of Mandos’s care before you would start searching. And on your first stop, you met Crix. Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe the galaxy is being weird. 

Crix offered for you a ride on his speeder bike, but Mando refused and rented one for the both of you instead. The rebel shrugged and carried on. The trip was spent in silence, Mando driving the speeder right behind Crix. The rational part of your brain told you to be more cautious. But your brain was a little too frazzled to be thinking rationally. 

“Here, sit down. You want some tea?” You nod, and Crix rifles through a cabinet. Mando sits next to you, legs spread wide, one arm over your shoulder. He doesn’t look at you, electing to observe the small house instead. As he watches Crix, you watch him. Mando’s been tense since Crix arrived in your life. Of course, he’s a bounty hunter; it’s part of the job to be suspicious. But he keeps touching you, on your shoulders, back, waist. You don’t mind. It feels good to have his attention on you. A small part of you considers that he’s being protective. After all, this is the first time you’ve been off the Crest in weeks, and you suddenly meet your brother’s rebel friend? But no, you’re not important enough to him for him to protect. Right? 

Crix sets the tea on the table, and you take a sip. You expected something hot, so when the cold liquid touches your lips, you almost choke. 

“What did you  _ do _ ?” Mando growls, and Crix backs up. The hand on you tightens, and you wave the question away. 

“It’s fine. I thought the tea would be hot, not cold.” His helmet turns to you then to the drink. 

“She’s right. Why have hot drinks on a desert planet?” Mando relents and slowly relaxes his hold, but the tension doesn’t fade all the way. You hear a hiss from outside, and Crix looks up in mild alarm. He gestures for you to relax; it’s just a piece of farming equipment that got loose. He exits the house with a bag of tools in hand. 

You and Mando sit quietly, and you sometimes take sips of the cold tea. It’s refreshing and a welcome upgrade from the nasty orange drink in the cantina. Sighing, you lean your head to rest on Mando’s shoulder. Your cheek grazes his pauldron, but the majority of your face nestles into the crook of his neck. He jolts at the contact then reigns you closer. The position is slightly uncomfortable since your head is pressed into his neck. He’s in full armor and wearing heavy fabric and his body heat alone makes you sweat. But he warms you up in another way—in a cheesy, jittery, totally ridiculous way. 

“Do you feel… safe here?” You burrow deeper into his embrace. 

“Yeah. I had this feeling earlier that something big was gonna happen. And it did.” It’s comforting to have your instincts be right. You don’t know what you’d do if you never got answers for your strange feeling. 

“Doesn’t mean it’s a good thing.” You hum in response and trace a gentle circle into the armorless part of Mando’s thigh. If Crix hadn’t been watching, how far would you have gone with Mando in the cantina? Surely, you wouldn’t have actually given him a handjob or blowjob right? The hornier, dirtier part of you disagrees. And Mando, for all his conservative clothes, would enjoy your boldness.  _ Did _ enjoy your boldness. 

“I have to go soon.” You break away from his hold to peer into his visor. “I came here for a bounty.” Right. You forgot you’re on Tatooine because it was Mando’s choice and not because of fate. 

“So you want me to go back to the Crest?” He sighs, and you can feel the movement through the armor. 

“If you want to, then yes. If you feel safe here, then you can stay too.” You try to reply but he cuts you off. “Look, I don’t like the guy. But if he knows your brother, then you deserve to talk to him.” He turns away from you, but you reach a hand out to stop him.

“Thank you,” you say. “I think I’ll stay then. When will you be back?” He shrugs. 

“Once I get the bounty. Tell the guy that I can pay him for his services.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Crix says from the doorway. There’s a strange look on his face, and you realize the position you’re in. You clear your throat and separate a bit, but Mando doesn’t bother to move.

“She’s my best friend’s sister,” he addresses Mando. “And you are here as a guest,” he nods at you. “I’ll be back in a few,” he says heading out the way he came.

“When are you leaving?” 

“Now.” Oh. All right.. You both stand up, and you take a moment to register just how big he is. In the dark, you can map out every muscle, every scar, every imperfection through touch alone. But with the searing Tatooine suns, you wonder if you even know him. If you’ll ever know him. That won’t stop your feelings though, however foolish they might be. 

You expect him to walk out right away, but he pauses and lays a hand on your shoulder. You want him to hug you. You want him to hold you tight and whisper sweet words in your ear. 

But he doesn’t hug you or whisper anything. He simply rubs your shoulder. It should be comforting. Instead, it’s a reminder of how close you can be to him, but he’ll always put himself farther away. 

“Stay safe,” you say, wishing one last time for him to hug you. He gives you a single nod, releases your shoulder, and heads out. You watch his back disappear through the door and hear the gentle roar of a speeder. A minute later, Crix enters with his tools. 

“Hungry?” 

“Yeah,” you say, eyes still trained on the door.

* * *

Tatooine has beautiful sunsets. The suns cast a certain glow the neon signs on your home planet could never hope to achieve. Crix sits next to you, hands propping him upright. With an almost empty glass of cold tea in hand (your third cup since arriving), you let yourself relax. You didn’t think that being off the Crest would make a difference, but you definitely feel better. The atmosphere of relaxation does wonders for physical and mental health, after all. 

“Tell me about my brother,” you say, breaking the silence. Crix releases a wistful sigh, still staring ahead.

“He was amazing. A pretty darn good pilot too. He was so good that Luke Skywalker complimented him once.” He glances at you, but your lack of response at the name makes him frown. “You don’t know Luke Skywalker?” You shake your head. Why would you? Your planet wasn’t too affected by the Empire, so there was no difference when it fell. What’s one rebel to you? 

“Skywalker is the pilot who brought down the first Death Star. He’s actually the best pilot in the rebellion, maybe the galaxy,” he chuckles. “There were also rumors that he was a  _ Jedi _ .” He whispers the last word, still waiting for some sort of reaction. You give him none.

“Seriously? You don’t know anything?” You shrug.

“This is the first time I’ve ever been off planet. What is a… Jedi?” Crix moves a bit, and settles into a more comfortable position. 

“Before the Empire, the Jedi were the peacekeepers of the Republic. The Empire purged all Jedi when it came to power. It’s rumoured that Skywalker is a Jedi because he’s so amazing. The things he does, the things I’ve seen him do… are nothing short of miracles. Even if he’s not a Jedi, it’s poetic. A Jedi restoring the Republic and ending the Empire’s oppression. Now that’s a good campaign,” he smiles softly. Right. Like any of those words meant anything to you. You barely register what he said. 

“What do Jedi do exactly?” You ask for the sake of it. In actuality, you want to get away from the off-topic situation and back to your brother, but Crix seems too appalled at your lack of knowledge. 

“They can move stuff with their mind, plant suggestions in people’s heads, and use lightsabers.” It sounds like a whole bunch of magic. “At least, that’s what it said in the secret volumes at the Great Library of Alderaan,” he trails off, glancing away from you. 

“You’re from Alderaan?” You’d heard the news years ago. The whole tavern had watched the news show Alderaan’s destruction. All channels coming from Alderaan ended, no evidence left behind except for space debris. An entire planet wiped from existence.

“Yeah,” he smiles bitterly. “That’s where I met your brother actually. Seven years ago.” You straighten. “He really was a simple cargo pilot. I was a lousy rebel pilot in disguise. We became friends, and he grew more interested in the Alliance. A month after meeting him, he pledged allegiance to the cause in the backroom of a bar.” 

“My brother died seven years ago. You said the Empire killed him.” None of this makes sense. He must have a rebel for longer than that. You remember the news reaching your family. You remember the little slip of paper saying that your brother died. 

“No he didn’t.” You also remember that there was never a body. The small hope of him being alive always lingered. If there was no body, there was no proof. You always imagined finding him, happy and whole, living on some nice, temperate planet. Maybe that could still happen. But if Crix is here and your brothers isn’t then- 

“So he’s alive?” Crix turns and takes your hand in his. The gentle squeeze tells everything.

“I’m sorry. He died defending Beta Group. He- do you want to know the story?” You nod. Your chest hurt like battery fuel on fire. Your tiny hope crushed before it could grow any further. “We were in the Beta Group under Commander Lajaie. The ships were in the Mako-Ta Space Docks. I remember it like yesterday,” he chuckles without humor. “The ships failed when we tried to enter hyperspace, and Vader arrived with the Death Squadron.” He glances at you, but you look away, staring into the bleeding suns. “The Commander told us to go to the escape pods, but Vader went to attack those first. Your brother, against orders, led enough of Vader’s fighters away from the escape pods. He saved many lives, sacrificing himself in the process.” 

“When?” 

“Three years ago after the Battle of Yavin.” 

Everything stops. The slight wind, the hot sand,  _ everything _ . You thought he was dead for  _ seven _ years. You lived with the grief of losing your best friend, your confidant. You cried for so many nights, aching for him back. You had centered so much of your kriffing identity around your brother that- 

“He didn’t want to endanger you.” You jerk your head to Crix. “If the Empire knew he was a rebel, they might go after his family too. It’s happened before. Better to pretend that he’s dead than risk your life. I faked my death too.” You don’t understand. The Empire never affected your life very much. Why would your brother even join the rebellion? Why? His life, your life, your parents’ lives: the Empire never  _ mattered _ as long as you had each other. As if he can see the questions on your face, Crix speaks up. 

“He believed in the cause. In the Republic. In democracy.” 

“Fuck democracy,” you seethe. He says your name, but you yank your hand away from his. “Your damn democracy is the reason my brother died! Fuck the rebellion, fuck Skywalker, and fuck  _ you _ . You probably didn’t even care-”

“You don’t know me,” he says calmly. But you don’t listen. You don’t want to listen. “He was my best friend. He was there when I realized the Death Star vaporized my planet,” he continues and you stay quiet, heart still fuming. “I was there when he talked about his family, about you. He loved you. And I loved him,” he says. You freeze and he looks at you with such raw, vulnerable eyes. 

“Were you…”

“Yes. We were lovers,” he whispers. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” You try to search for something to say, anything to say. But the words die on your tongue and you reach for his hand. So much grief to process in so little time. 

“I was a scholar on Alderaan,” Crix says after minutes of silence. “The Empire destroyed most texts about Jedi but not all. They gave me hope to join the Alliance. I never thought I’d be a pilot. I wanted to help in other ways, but they needed more pilots, even bad ones. I considered dropping out. But your brother convinced me to stay in the same way I convinced him to join.” 

“Why Tatooine?” 

“I had a feeling. Besides, Luke and his father, Anakin, were from here. If this planet can produce two heroes, why not settle here? Of course, slavery and Hutts aren’t very good, but… I had a feeling. Maybe the Force knew I’d meet you,” he shrugs. After a few beats of silence, he stands up and brushes the sand off his pants, hand still in yours. “Let’s get some food then sleep.” 

“Thank you,” you squeeze his hand, “for everything.”

* * *

After eating some classic bantha steak for dinner and drinking it down with blue milk (an odd but tasty treat), you settle down on the couch with Crix in front of you on another chair. 

You tell Crix about life back home. About your parents working hard to provide for you. How they loved you and cared for you, and you were too blind to see it because all their attention was spent on their business, their employees. Because if you learned anything from staying with Mando, it’s that some people show their affection silently or roughly, but it never detracts from the intent. 

You ask Crix if he would like to come to your home planet and meet your parents. He says he’d love to. 

Crix tells you all about the adventures he had with your brother. How a simple Alderanian scholar like him became a rebel pilot— the story involved espionage, betrayal,  _ and _ gambling—or how their first mission together failed. Or even how your brother first reacted to being kissed.

“It was like the concept of a guy kissing another guy was foreign to him,” Crix says. 

“We were very sheltered growing up despite owning a… prostitution bar.” He shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Sheltered alright. He became a rebel and you’re dating a Mandalorian bounty hunter.”

“We’re not dating.” Crix gives you a  _ sure, yeah sure _ look. You yawn in response. 

You know you should sleep, but the buzzing excitement of questions stops you. Mando said you deserved to talk to Crix, so you will. Besides, conversation with Crix flows easier than a tap of beer. In the same way your brother was your best friend, Crix could be too. If they loved and trusted each other enough to consider marriage after the Empire collapses— a revelation that stings and bites and makes you cry— then you can love and trust Crix too. 

Of course, the Empire and Rebel Alliance’s role in your brother’s death still haunts the back of your mind. If he had never joined, he wouldn’t have died. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. The galaxy is too large and too dangerous to ever guarantee someone’s life. In this galaxy, a Queen of Alderaan and her planet were vaporized, and a Tatooine farm boy destroyed the Empire. Crix told you that ‘it was the will of the Force’ but you don’t really believe it.

How could you believe that an order of wizard monks that were purged to almost extinction? But if your brother believed in Luke Skywalker— something that Crix made sure to tell you often—then maybe you could too. Except-

A large part of you feels betrayed. Sure, faking his death was for your safety. It still doesn’t erase the years of mourning and grief. It doesn’t erase how you poured so much of yourself into the idea of tracing his steps and living his journey. Finding clues about your brother was supposed to be your big adventure, your ‘coming of age’ tale. Yet… 

He should’ve told you. You would’ve joined him too. You would become a rebel if it meant being with your best friend despite being a young teenager. You’d be by his and Crix’s side, helping to save the galaxy. Maybe he knew that you would follow. You were young and impressionable and idolized him too much. 

“It’s getting late. You can sleep in the bedroom; I’ll be out here.” 

“This is your place, Crix. Not mine.”

“And you’re my lover’s sister. He would smite me,” you both laugh. It’s comfortable and soothing. You can imagine living here, on Tatooine, and helping Crix farm water. Crix would definitely welcome you. Your brother would like it too. The two people he cared for, taking care of each other. 

But you know your place is with Mando. At least for now. When you think of home, it was always the tavern. The Crest isn’t comfortable. It isn’t a home. Yet, being around Mando  _ feels _ right. Like it’s meant to be. Of course, the cheesy romantic side of you swoons and does all the talking. The rational part scoffs. A life with a bounty hunter doesn’t seem like the life you want or could enjoy. Besides, you have your answers. You’ve accomplished your goals. There’s nothing left to learn from Mando. 

“Let’s just share the bed, yeah?”

“Your Mando won’t mind?” You shrug. 

“It’s not like we’re together, you know. And you’re basically my new brother now.” Crix smiles, a wide, happy, smile. You return the favor. 

When you wake up, hours later, Crix has already left. Groaning, you stretch your arms and back. A real bed did wonders for your physical state. Of course, Crix’s warmth was nothing like Mando’s. Sleeping next to Crix was like cuddling alongside your brother. Familial. Platonic. Mando, on the other hand, made you think sinful, unutterable things. 

A glass of milk waits for you when you emerge from the room. You glance around at the empty living room, and conclude that Crix must be outside. You decide to lounge on the couch with the cold milk and take little sips. There isn’t anything for you to do; when you tried to help yesterday, Crix shooed you away with fervor. Your skills also don’t apply to farming; you’re better off with managing finances. 

You settle for stretching on the floor, taking the time to hold the positions. It’s hot as usual, and you already build up a sweat. You stretched regularly at home, more out of boredom than a desire to stay healthy. There’s room to exercise on the Crest; you see Mando doing it when he has the chance, but it’s still a little awkward for you to stretch around the ship. The Crest isn’t yours, and you don’t know how long Mando will allow you to stay. The thought of your temporary status makes you feel… a little inadequate, so you push that to the back of your mind.

After an hour or so, Crix invites you outside. He asks if you’ll join him on a little trip to Tosche Station since he’s missing some parts he needs for repairs. You agree, excited for a mini adventure, and strap into the speeder bike. Hopefully Mando won’t get worried if he arrives at an empty house. Some part of you  _ wants _ Mando to miss you and get worried, as selfish as the thought is. 

Anchorhead is quite boring. Aside from leering males and brute criminals, nothing exciting happens. Of course, you and Crix were mistaken for husband and wife—something the both of you laugh at— so you pretend to be in-laws instead which isn’t that far from the truth. After Crix buys all his parts and some extra supplies, you head back to his homestead. 

The rest of the hot day is spent talking about your brother. How he was a great pilot and an even greater friend. How he had to be an absolutely amazing person to catch the attention of a Jedi. Crix seems to hold an idol complex for the near-extinct wizard religion, so your brother talking to Luke was momentous for him. He offers to tell you stories about the Jedi Order, but you’re not really interested. It’s probably your poor, uneducated, Outer Rim self speaking, but the Jedi of the Republic are so fantastical that it’s hard to believe they’re real. Besides, why would you listen to tales about them when you can learn more about your brother? 

The day passes quicker than you realize, and the gentle chill of the night arrives. Like the previous night, you and Crix sit outside to watch the suns set. It’s calming, and you find yourself getting used to the routine. You can see a future, a life here with Crix. A simple life, far from the dangers of space and accompanied by your brother’s lover. 

“He likes you,” Crix says, nudging you out of your thoughts. At your confused face, he continues. “The Mandalorian.” You scoff.

“As if. I don’t even know his name or face.” Crix shakes his head. 

“It wasn’t like that before. My mom told me that Mandos could take off their helmets and say their names anytime they wanted. I think yours is just super strict,” Crix shrugs. Huh. You’ve always wondered about the Mandalorian culture and how strong warriors are hardly seen anymore. Maybe they’re like the Jedi: from a time before the Empire, forever hiding in the shadows, content to lay low and survive. 

“Maybe,” you say and turn to face the lowering suns. From the corner of your eye, you see a dark figure speeding closer. Crix notices too and squints at the approaching speeder bike. The person parks right in front of you and hops off. Mando. 

He drags a gagged and blindfolded person off the bike and onto the sand below. The human male struggles for a bit, but Mando presses a button on the vambrace, and the man shudders before falling unconscious. It’s a disturbing sight, and you shiver. You can’t imagine the feeling of getting electrocuted to sleep. 

“Well, he’s a bounty hunter for sure,” Crix mutters. You jump to your feet and approach Mando. He looks tired. The tension in his shoulders, the stiff stance of his legs, and the heavier breathing point to growing signs of fatigue. A pang of guilt stabs your heart.

While you were lounging around, drinking milk, and watching the sunset, Mando was working his ass off for a bounty. For just a few credits to fuel his ship and feed himself while providing for you. You haven’t even done anything useful except cleaning and providing a warm body. 

Maybe that’s all he needs you for.

As excited as you are to see him, you also feel a little dread. Crix nods at Mando, and they enter the house along with the bounty. As Mando passes the threshold, he holds a hand out towards you. The little action makes you smile, and you scurry over to take his hand. Together, you go inside the house. Despite the air being hot as usual, you relish in the warmth of Mando’s gloved hand, in the heat his metal armor retains. 

You’ll talk to him later about ways you can help out and ease the burden of his job. Possibly figure out what your relationship really is. If it even needs a label. You need clarity eventually, some even ground at least. 

For now, you settle next to Mando on the couch as Crix prepares some food. Mando will have to eat in a separate room and clean his armor and blasters there too. And you’ll be waiting for him when he’s done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of plot! I hope the Jedi tidbit isn't too jarring, but don't worry Mando won't know about the Force until much, much later... 
> 
> talk to me about anything @ https://mangobilorian.tumblr.com/


	5. Milk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes drama

After you and Crix finish eating, you both go outside, giving Mando the privacy of the house. It seems a little overkill to leave the man an entire house to himself (and the bounty), but he deserves that much at least. And while the Tatooine night isn’t as beautiful as the sunsets, the stars more than make up for it. 

“There, you see that,” you say, pointing towards the right side of the sky. “Somewhere in that constellation is my star, and the system that surrounds it.” 

“Beautiful,” Crix replies. “You know, I never studied astronomy on Alderaan, too happy with history to bother. And we’ve explored most of the galaxy anyway.” 

“I guess. I’m pretty sure we know less than we think we do. The Unknown Regions could be twice or three times the size of the Core and all the Rims combined. Think about it!” Crix laughs and takes a sip of his tea. A sleeping tea, this time, cooled and perfect for an easy rest.

“How many constellations do you know?” You pause, taking the time to mull over the question. When you dreamed about finding your brother, you studied the stars. You plotted different routes he could take, the planets he could reach given the fuel capacity of his ship, which ones he’d avoid or welcome. Charts of the skies were imprinted on the back of your eyelids, day and night. 

It also helped, that your time doing finances for your parents gave you constant practice with math. While you weren’t the next big physicist, you knew enough to plot coordinates. And make finance sheets compatible with different holo programs. 

Somehow, in all that studying, you enjoyed learning about the stars. Not enough to make a career out of it (and what a useless career _that_ would be), but it’s a fun enough hobby. “I can point out most of the constellations that make up the Known Regions,” you grin. “And if we’re talking Mid Rim in, I could tell you the different constellations in the main languages from their systems.” 

“Oh? You know many languages and are a budding astronomer. I see.” Rolling your eyes, you shuffle a bit. The sand is as irritating as always but- you could get used to it. Probably. “If- you mentioned becoming a pilot and following your brother were your dreams, right?” You nod, looking at Crix. The night is too dark, however, so you only see a shadow. “I could teach you how to fly, if you want. If we can get a ship.” You pause, dumbfounded. 

It’s so _easy_ for Crix to offer you flying lessons when it took Mando so much kriffing effort to even agree.

Crix would be a better teacher. He’s gentle and softhearted. He’ll give you corrections sandwiched between compliments and encouragement. A far cry from Mando’s disastrous lesson. Maker, you can imagine it: you, a few years from now, with fantastic piloting skills honed by an ex-rebel pilot. 

But flying with Crix would mean letting Mando go, and you’re not sure if you want that. In fact, you’re not sure if flying is a thing _you_ want to do for yourself and not for your brother. Your mind hurts at the implication, though, so you steal a sip of Crix’s tea before thinking of your reply. 

You open your mouth to speak, ready to give an answer when- “Or, we can go to Anchorhead, and see if there’s a book about stars. For you to take on your trip with your Mandalorian.” 

Oh. _Oh_. You release a breath, stomach giddy and confused. Crix knows you better than you know yourself, you realize. Which you shouldn’t be surprised about, honestly. Your brother held your identity so secret that only Crix knew he had family, but that didn’t stop him from telling Crix every embarrassing story from your childhood. 

“I’d like that. Thank you.” You hear Crix chuckle.

“You’re welcome.” The both of you stay quiet for a moment, content to sit next to each other in silence. It’s a stark difference from the thick tension between you and Mando. And there’s _always_ tension whether it be sexual or emotional or- or anything else. “Tell me about your parents,” Crix says softly. “What are they like?” You furrow your brows. You already told him all about them before. 

But this is the first time Crix wanted to know something, the first time he asked an actual question. Taking your silence as rejection, he says, “I’m sorry. You don’t have to-”

“They’re nice. I think, once they get over the fact that you’re a boy, they’ll like you. Of course, they’d learn their firstborn son had lied about his death in a plot to destroy the Empire, but,” you shrug, “they’ll learn to internalize their grief and move on like everyone else.” Crix stays silent, and you worry that maybe what you said isn’t the sort of thing he was looking for.

“My dad… he likes his caf with just a little sugar. No cream. He can’t drink lactose without getting an upset stomach. He loves sour treats, especially the lemon tarts imported from Naboo. His favorite color is orange, and he doesn’t like speaking when he has to. My mom,” you pause, choking back the urge to cry. 

You don’t know _why_ you suddenly want to bawl, but, just as you feel the familiar urge of drowning, Crix places a warm hand on your elbow. You suck back your tears and continue. 

“My mom loves plants and pretty things. It’s why she likes the b-bar girls so much. They’re prettier than me. But she loves me, in her own way. She buys me d-dresses and skirts, but they never fit. She sees everything as a project, a slate for her to fix,” you fiddle your fingers, thinking of all those beautiful clothes the bar girls wear while you get too-big or too-small garments. The colors shine and shimmer on the Twi’leks, Togrutas, Pantorans…. They never glitter on you. 

“She likes lemon tarts too and takes her caf with cream and lots of sugar. If she had the choice, she’d probably travel, looking for the prettiest things in the world and leaving me and dad behind. But she lo-loves us so m-much,” you sob, burying your face in your hands, chest squeezing. It’s been a while since you last cried, much less about your parents; the last time you shed a tear was before Mando… before you and Mando…. 

Life is so different now; _you’re_ so different. You’re no longer a bumbling, naive girl with dreams too big to ever complete. Truly, you’d been a fool to ever think that you’d track your brother’s journey through the galaxy, years after his supposed death. But you found a man who made you feel what love is like (is it love?), and you found the truth about your brother on the first planet you landed on, and somehow, in the past month, you found out how to be just a bit stronger, a bit less rambling and insecure. 

None of that would have happened if Mando never saved you that day when you got in his way, surely endangering himself and his bounty. 

But you can’t deny that, for the first time, you miss your parents. You’ve changed, yes, but- Maker, you miss them _so kriffing much_. In the holodramas, the young girls that go on adventures have no parents, while you willingly left yours behind. Crix pulls you into a sideways hug, and you lean in. 

“Shhh, it’s ok. Thanks for telling me,” he says, after your tears dry and sobs stop. You realize that you’ve probably been out here for an hour, and Mando is definitely finished with his food and armor cleaning. Voicing your observation, Crix agrees, and you head back, wiping your face one last time.

When you enter the house, you find Mando closer to the door than you thought. Odd, but not unwarranted. Crix breezes to his room, claiming the sleepy tea made him exhausted, and leaves you alone with the bounty hunter.

“Where’s the bounty?” you ask after an uncomfortable silence. Mando points to the corner at the man, gagged, bound, and unconscious. But not tied to anything. “He won’t escape?” Mando shrugs, and his armor gleams from the moonlight. 

“I broke his ankles. He won’t run anytime soon. Once he’s in carbonite, he’s not a problem.” Mando walks over to you, a hulking man of metal, and gently brushes his knuckles against your cheeks. “Does that scare you?” You gulp. 

“No,” you say. Because you’re not. You think. You know how Mando can get, how all bounty hunters act when the prey is caught and the hunt ends. But breaking a man’s ankles seems unnecessarily cruel but- you _know_ Mando would never hurt you.

“No, I’m not,” you smile, leaning into the gloved hand that now cups your cheek. This is what you wanted, right? For him to touch you like he loves you, like he’s a romantic interest in the holodramas, and you’re the main character. So why is your heart pounding with a little dread? 

“Good.” He pulls away from you quickly, and you almost want to bring him back closer but- you’re not foolish enough to think he’d like that. Mando is blunt, quiet, and scary. Independent. He doesn’t need a girl like you, lost and chirping away, tugging at his hand for affection. 

“Okay,” you reply because you don’t know what else to say. With that, you turn to Crix’s bedroom, but stop in your tracks. Would Mando…? 

No, he wouldn’t mind that you and Crix would share a bed, right? Crix had voiced his concern, but Mando _had_ to see you weren’t interested in Crix like that. Besides, the couch is too small for both you and the bounty hunter. And there is no way Crix and Mando would share a bed. The thought almost makes you laugh, but you stop the sound from bubbling past your lips. 

And yet… 

You breeze into Crix’s room, tugging at the spare linens in his closet and stealing the second pillow off his bed. He shoots you a knowing smile, even winking at you which you pointedly ignore. Mando doesn’t say anything when you throw the couch cushions on the floor, doesn’t even move when you settle between the spare blanket, motioning for him to share the pillow.

Later, with Mando’s arm across your waist, armorless except for his helmet, you shut your eyes and try to sleep. You dream of stars and spaceships and siblings. 

* * *

Mando had stayed behind with the bounty on the homestead when you and Crix left. 

He had wanted to leave the man’s injuries unattended, but he caved and allowed you to brace his ankle after you pressed a kiss to his helmet. The man cried when you did, almost reaching a hand out to touch you, but Mando stopped him.

“He’s a killer,” he said. You didn’t mention the fact that Mando’s a killer too. That he shot Ras Drun because he didn’t want others to kill him first and- you shove that thought out your traitorous mind. Killing is part of the job; he doesn’t _like_ what he does. Mando is the only justice the galaxy can get, the type of justice that tracks criminals over systems.

When you and Crix reach Anchorhead it’s as dull as before, but the library isn’t. Small, dusty, and on the brink of collapse, the library teems with old books. Tatooine is decades behind on literature, but the stars don’t change much, and Crix secures you a book with paper pages. Paper! An outdated thing, yes, but the book is so beautiful. You thank Crix many times over, and he laughs it off like the good would-have-been brother-in-law he is. 

The book, titled _The Scholar’s Guide to the Galaxy’s Stars and Systems, Edition Twelve_ , sits on the bottom of your bag. Crix pushes the bag, filled with tea and milk and bantha jerky, at you, making you promise to come back. 

You leave that night since Mando prefers travelling when the oppressive heat doesn’t cook him in his armor. He returns the speeder bike in Mos Eisley and drags the bounty through the sand, braced ankles and all. It’s a blessing that the man doesn’t wake up; you can’t comprehend the pain he’s going through, killer or not. It serves as another reminder that, much like Tatooine, the real galaxy is full of pain and suffering, more than the small glimpses you had back home.

The trip back to the Crest is silent, Mando not speaking even when you arrive at the ship, opting to open the hatch and climb right in without sparing you a word. 

You place the bag on the floor gently, mindful of the inner contents, and crouch down. The milk will go sour soon, so you should probably drink it now. Before you can continue contemplating what time to drink your blue milk, you hear the tell-tale signs of the carbonite sealing around the bounty. 

As the hiss dies down, you look towards Mando on the other end of the ship, then at the bounty’s face, mouth wide open in a silent scream. You wonder if the braces you gave him would be enough to help him heal while he spends time in his frozen prison. 

Sighing, you reach back into the bag to pull your book out when Mando suddenly towers over you. A bit spooked, you scoot back. 

He looks so _large_ standing there, a mountain of metal. You know the corded muscles that sculpt his body; you know that if you reach out to the tiny spot below his ear, and give him a little kiss, he’d treat you with a groan. But it’s been so long since you two had any real time together (not counting last night because you both were tired), despite it being three or so days since you landed on Tatooine. Your face heats up at the memory. 

You expect him to reach out to you, to speak and say what’s on his mind. Instead, Mando pushes past you and heads up the ladder. It stings like rejection, but you push the feeling down. You have no right to feel that way. 

After a minute or so, the ship rumbles, and you feel the Crest rise into the air. You should’ve gone up with him, so you can help plot the coordinates on his next bounty or something. You want to be more useful, less like a burden. 

With another sigh (geez, when did you get so gloomy?), you trudge up the ladder and into the cockpit. Mando sits in the main chair, broad and unwavering as always. For a moment, your throat goes dry, and you wonder what to say. Thankfully, he beats you to it.

“We’re going to Cato Neimoidia,” he says, not bothering to face you as he speaks. 

You calculate the distance on your fingers, almost surprised at how quick the journey would be. You’ve never ventured that far into the galaxy before, much less to a Neimoidian purse world. “That’ll be, what, five and a half days of travel?” Mando wheels his chair around. 

“Yes,” he says, curtly. Oh. Well all right. You fiddle your fingers a bit, unsure on how to proceed. It’s always been slightly awkward around Mando, but you got used to it. Now? Now, there’s something different, an underlying tension you’re not quite sure you like. 

Suddenly, you’re reminded of the last time you were in the cockpit, horny and frustrated. Back then, you still had faraway dreams of tracing your brother’s path. But when you finally got the answers you ached to have… that means it’s all going to end, right? You should’ve stayed with Crix when he gave you the chance. Because as much as you want to stay with Mando, maybe he doesn’t want you to. But he did offer to continue your piloting lessons, and he never explicitly said he’d kick you out. 

“W-would you like some milk?” you ask after a long, long time of standing. “We should finish it before it spoils. Crix said-”

“I know what he said.” Mando turns around, and that’s as big of a dismissal as you’re going to get. It stings, just a little, to be pushed aside so easily but- what can you expect? He doesn’t _owe_ you anything even if you wish he had a little more tact. 

So you hurry downstairs to your bag and split the glass of milk between two packed cups. You leave yours downstairs, a snack for when you read your new book, and take Mando’s up the ladder, careful not to spill. 

When you re-enter the cockpit, Mando has his head in his hands. “Are you all right?” He flinches at your voice, not bothering to acknowledge your presence. You set the cup down on a flat surface, making sure it won’t spill on the controls you only just managed to remember. Looking at them now, you can barely tell which meter is the gauge for the hyperspace fuel and which one is for the oxygen levels in the ship. 

“Yes,” Mando replies, and you realize you had forgotten what you even asked. Without a thank you, he picks the cup up, and you take your cue to leave him his privacy. When you descend the ladder, you fight the urge to throw your forehead against the wall and scream.

Why is he being so kriffing _cold_ ? Why? Things were good before Tatooine. Great, in fact. Those three days were both nerve-wracking and exhilarating. And the cantina? Stars, you almost gave him a handjob in public! So you don’t understand why Mando is being so- so _stiff._

Part of you thinks you should’ve known this might happen, that your days of happiness and bliss wouldn’t last. He’s a bounty hunter, not a prince. Bounty hunters don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves; that’s a business infraction. But another part says that he might’ve changed. Might’ve actually wanted to be nice, and that, beneath all that metal, he’s still a man. A man with toned muscles and a stiff co-

_Okay_. You should probably stop there. You’re mad at him, right? 

Shit. You don’t know what to do if you’re mad at him or if _he’s_ mad at you. You wish Crix were here; he’d give you great advice.

And suddenly you have a bright thought, a glaring epiphany. Crix. You remember how quick Mando was when he slammed Crix into the wall and threatened him. You thought he got over the initial animosity since he allowed you to stay on Crix’s homestead while he did his job. Maybe Mando stayed territorial, possessive. But while your growing arousal surges at that thought, another part of you shivers. 

Yes, you like the feeling of him dominating you in bed. But dominating your affections? Your emotions? Who you could care for or be around? That doesn’t sit right with you at all. Especially since he has the gall to be jealous over your long-dead brother’s fiance. 

With a sudden spike of anger, you take a sip of your milk for some much-needed energy and climb the ladder once more. 

Before Mando can even turn in his seat, fully helmeted with an untouched cup of milk on the console, you wheel his chair around yourself. 

“Why are you like this?” you say, not really sure what you mean, but you _know_ you have to get this off your chest. 

“What?” 

“This,” you wave your hands in his general direction. “Cold and mean. We were fine before- before Tatooine, and we come back, and you’re all grumpy. You don’t say anything on the ride here. You don’t say thanks when I give you milk. And you don’t even know what you’re doing wrong! I just don’t get it, and you don’t have any right to-”

Mando cuts you off by grabbing your wrists and pulling you in until you’re sprawled over his lap. “What-”

“Can you please shut up?”

“No,” you glare, your reflection distorted on his helmet. You try to wiggle away, but his grip is too tight.

“Listen to me. Can you- _stop moving_. I get it. You want to go back to that shit planet and be with your new boyfriend. But you said you wanted to learn to fly, and that little rebel farmer doesn’t even have a ship.” 

You freeze, unable to process what he said. But when you do, you become _infuriated_.

“Boyfriend?! What boyfriend? Last time I checked, _Mandalorian_ , you’re the closest person to fit the bill! Did you really think Crix and I are- are dating? You and I slept on the floor last night! _Together_. I know you have a bucket on your head every day, but are you actually that dense?” You don’t know where the sudden venom in your voice comes from, but it’s there, glaring and loud and stinging.

You try to squirm away, too angry to deal with the blank, metal facade in front of you, but Mando pulls you tighter to his chest. “You seemed so happy with him, and told him about your parents that I thought-”

Wait. 

What? 

What do your parents have to do with anything unless- he heard you, didn’t he? Heard you cry and sob about missing them. And somehow, your words made him believe that you and Crix… 

“You thought what?” you say, softer, forcing the bite out your voice.“He asked about my parents, Mando. So I told him. Just because he’s a guy I’m friends with doesn’t mean I’m attracted to him.” 

“Oh.” He sounds so… sad yet still gruff. Resigned. It almost breaks your heart, and for a moment you let yourself wonder about his personal life, about his parents. He’s never mentioned them, and you highly doubt he’d start talking now, but-

“You can always ask,” you say, and Mando brushes a finger against your cheek. “But next time, please don’t jump to conclusions. For both our sakes.”

“Hmm.”

You take a moment to linger in the aftermath of your miscommunication and- Maker, you feel so _proud_ of yourself. For being able to handle the situation without any lasting consequences, for not fumbling over your words despite feeling overwhelmed. You might be a little high on adrenaline (his accusation almost gave you a heart attack), and you really, really want to laugh, or cry or sleep but- you hold it in. 

It’s ridiculous to think of Crix as anything other than a brother. But given that Mando is a touch-starved, emotionally stunted bounty hunter who can’t even show his face or divulge his name, he didn’t understand how simple your relationship with Crix is. How can anyone reach the conclusion that you and Crix are an item when you gave up an actual bed to sleep on the hard floor with Mando?

“Are you angry with me?” he asks after a long while. You shake your head immediately. No, you’re not angry. Or even scared. Because, while Mando breaks his bounty’s ankles or shoots them point blank, he’s still vulnerable enough to ask if you're angry with him. To grow soft at the mention of parents. 

You move to get up, but two gloved hands on your hips stop you. What-

Something hard and stiff presses against your inner thigh, and you fight the urge to squeal. Only now, far departed from that dirty cantina, do you remember the familiar feeling of want nestled in your stomach. You forgot how much you craved more of Mando’s body until his actual boner juts into your thigh, a reminder of what exactly will come next. 

And while some part of you wants to be petty and leave him hanging for being a jerk who talks first before thinking, you also desperately want him to take you right there in the cockpit. Or rather, you just want to be in his arms forever. 

“Fuck,” Mando grunts when you adjust yourself in his lap. “Eager, aren’t you?” 

“You’re one to talk,” you breathe out, hands already reaching between your bodies to where his cock tents, stiff and proud. You debate taking off his thigh armor but decide against it even though you really want to feel his muscular thigh. 

Bringing one hand to your mouth, Mando lets you take his glove off with his teeth, and you take a moment to appreciate his darkened skin, calloused and large. Together, you and Mando pull his pants down just enough for his cock to slip out and- Maker, it’s _so_ much better seeing him in the light like this. The veins, slight curve, the leaking-

With a jolt, you realize that this is the first time you’ve ever seen any inch of unprotected skin (aside from his wrist). Maybe it’s a step in the right direction, an achievement to show that he’s willing to reveal parts of himself. 

You spit into your hand, much like the way you first touched him so long ago, and reach for him. You give him firm, slow strokes, and Mando rewards you with a groan. There’ll be no kissing this time, you mourn sadly, but he might give you access to his neck. The thought makes you giddy. 

With a little maneuvering, you manage to tug enough of Mando’s clothes down and reveal his equally tanned skin underneath. He lets you, surprisingly, but jolts when you first press your lips on the dip above his collarbone. His cock even twitches in your hand. 

Mando gets tired eventually, though, and he wrenches your own pants to your knees. You stand up for a moment, basking in his attention, and undress the whole way, throwing the pants on the floor, soon followed by your shirt and undergarments.

Kriff, you feel all the blood in your body burning, aching for more Mando, for more of _him_ , helmeted or not. He eases a finger into you, and you gasp, body opening up again after a few days of celibacy. He presses the pad of his finger right into the ridged, highly sensitive part of you, and you drool against his neck. 

“F-fuck, Mando, right-” 

You climax not soon after, two of Mando’s fingers curved upwards into you while one thumb rests above your clit. When Mando slides between your folds and begins thrusting, it’s like the past few days never happened, and you’re right back normal. A simple girl with dreams of following her brother through space. A girl with a useless, hopeless crush on a masked bounty hunter. 

It takes you begging for his helmet to come off to make Mando twist you around so your back presses against his chest. The position is new and exhilarating, and it sends shivers of excitement up your spine. 

Mando touches you, all of you, and as his mouth sucks wet hickeys on your throat, he thrusts up into you. There’s no measured pace, no cadence with his motions. It’s pure and wild _fucking_ but- there’s something like desperation there. 

With him squeezing a nipple in one hand and covering your eyes with the other, it’s up to you to rub your clit, chasing down a second high as your head lolls back to rest on his shoulder, chest heaving from Mando’s rough thrusts.

Moments later, bright white flashes behind your eyelids, you’re entire head going fuzzy and airy and _wired_ and- fuck, you go limp in Mando’s arms. With a drawn-out groan, he finishes inside you, a trickle of his release gliding down your aching thighs.

When you think it’s time to go, Mando keeps you there, and you feel him soften, sometimes twitching. It’s… new but not unwanted. In fact, the whole experience has been something novel, a new achievement indeed. He presses a gentle kiss to your ear, and you swoon, happy to pretend for a little longer.

Promising to keep your eyes closed, you allow yourself to be picked up and off his lap as Mando grabs his helmet from the floor, groaning at the sudden emptiness. And, when your eyes begin to droop and you don’t need to force them closed, you let him tuck you into a co-pilot chair, his cape draped over you like a blanket.

* * *

Din doesn’t remember why he first asked you to join him on Tatooine. All Din knows is that he didn’t want to leave you behind on the Crest, all sad and lonely, especially not after he fucked you for three days straight. 

And it’s not like you ask to come to missions, only prompting questions about the next destination, so Tatooine would be a change of pace. 

You were mildly interested in Nevarro, but while he’d left you behind on the Crest before, he didn’t dare bring you there. If Paz catches wind of you— weak and starry-eyed—the whole Covert would wonder why Din would choose someone so soft. But Din doesn’t want you to make more younglings for the Covert; boiling down your purpose to a _breeder_ seems so… demeaning. No, he doesn’t really know _why_ he wants you next to him. Something about you makes him… start questioning things. 

So he takes you to Mos Eisley, buys you a drink as if he were just another man, and watches as you almost gag at the taste. It stings a bit, but what did he expect? Din Djarin is _not_ the definition of a “good date” and never has been. 

And then he has to control himself when your pretty little hand cups him through his pants with the promise of more. Fuck, the dirtiest words escape your mouth. You surprise him, but he should’ve known that you’re a little vixen under all your awkward fumbling. Or rather, you grew more confident to show that side of yourself after a month under Din’s rough tutelage. After all, you’re very different from the stuttering girl who spilled details on one elusive Devaronian bounty. 

Everything in the cantina goes well, the buildup of something dirty and satisfying just barely out of reach. Then you go and meet that odd, grimy, ex-rebel, and Din has to watch you smile at his stories and stay at his farm. 

He thinks of you during the entire hunt despite the rational part of his head telling him to stop. You are… well, Din doesn’t know what you are. What your relationship is. Are you his girlfriend? Would that make him a boyfriend? Din doesn’t know how to be a boyfriend. The word itself seems a little… immature. Young. Juvenile. And Din is too old to be using those words. 

He’s only ever had lovers, most of them seedy, and no one near serious. But you- you sleep in his bed, allow him to ravage your inexperienced body, and clean up the ship. You want to learn to fly, want to trace your brother’s footsteps, want to seem like an older woman rather than the small girl you are. 

He wants to be at the farm with you, have you on a real bed regardless if there’s company (but he really _does not_ want to share) but- there’s a bounty to catch. And if Din takes out his personal frustrations on the boy, he’ll never tell. Thankfully, the kid’s already weak ankles break easily. Gagged, bound, unconscious. Easy money. 

But when he arrives to see you and Crix watching the kriffing sunset together, he feels an ugly coil settle in his stomach. 

And fuck, Crix gives you everything you want. He knew your brother. He was a pilot who could teach you better than Din can. And Crix makes you smile and laugh and talk about the personal details of your life that you never divulged to Din. Even worse, Crix is still young, younger than Din. And you’re fresh and green, barely into adulthood and- and Din _used_ you. 

He knows you were willing, but he still thinks himself a little monstrous for taking advantage of you. Cabin fever, his _shebs_. All his talk of taking it slow led to three days of sex, three days of leaving you in the dark about everything in his life while he takes and takes and takes from your innocent body. 

Din resolves himself to be silent, to not make your departure from Tatooine any harder than it has to be. Half of him thinks you would actually stay with Crix, and he’s happy you don’t. But he hears you talk about your parents, and Din, for an achingly long moment, wonders if you'll ever share that information with him. 

He wonders if his parents would have liked you. And shit- he hasn’t thought about them for _years_ , not after Death Watch showed him the Way, and Din Djarin became Mando. The fact that you- an unassuming, stuttering girl makes him remember, makes him question… he doesn’t know what to think about that. 

His only reprieve is holding you at night on the hard floor of another man’s house where he can’t even take his helmet off to kiss you. You’re as soft as ever and Din… Din feels emotions other than lust when he hugs you close. 

Then he returns to the ship, and Din’s constantly reminded of Crix everywhere. Your little book about the stars— an interest that you never told Din before. The tea sashays you bring: a drink you actually enjoy instead of Din’s atrocious gift at that cantina. Hells, the _milk_ you pour into a cup and give to him. 

And then- then you storm back up, demanding to know why he’s acting cold and blunt, not realizing that he’s building his walls because of _you_ . With his heart caught between his ribs, he only says what he thinks is true. That you and Crix _have_ to be together because there’s no way in all of Corellia’s hells that you like Din as much as he likes you.

Fuck, it feels so good to admit that in his head. He likes curling you into his chest at night, likes draping an arm around your shoulder at seedy cantinas, likes kissing you senseless. Likes teaching you everything whether it be sex or piloting or carbon freezing. 

Before you, he resigned himself to thinking of himself as more metal than man. More Creed than person. He was Mando like all other Mandos, plain and simple. 

With you, he can be Din Djarin. He can approach a past buried under pain and devotion to the Way. 

He wants you to understand, just for a bit, how he’s in pain at the thought of _not_ having you. Because he knows for a fact that if you were to leave… he’d go right back to being Mando the bounty hunter, one of many other bucket heads, follower of a stiff creed from a broken planet. 

So right now, angry and hurting, he pours out his frustrations only for you to respond back with more determination and grit that he’s ever seen. And while the jealous, irrational part of him says Crix made you stronger, he’d be blind to not realize that no man could change you. He has no _right_ to say that he’s the one responsible for your new-found strength.

While Din taught you not to stutter and how to suck cock, you grew up on your own. No longer chasing long dead relatives but now your own desires. Din’s happy you chose him to continue to be in your life, so fucking _happy_ and reassured and safe. 

So he stops you from leaving and shows you just what you do to him. 

He takes you right there in his chair, even taking his helmet off to kiss your neck because he needs you. All of you. When he finishes inside you and keeps himself there, he almost confesses his fucking _feelings_ like the love drunk fool he is. But the words don’t tumble past his lips, not even as a whisper or murmur. 

Din feels how tired you are, though, too tired to head down the ladder yourself. So he dresses you back in your shirt and tucks you into the co-pilot chair, snuggled under his unfastened cape. He watches you sleep, as creepy as that sounds, and sips the milk. It’s an odd taste, and he doesn’t know why you like it so much. 

He doesn’t know a lot about you actually. You said that he only had to ask about your life, and you would answer. But that might mean giving up his own history, and Din’s pretty sure he’s not ready for that anytime soon. 

Din buckles down in the chair, refraining from thinking about the events that happened a few minutes prior. He watches the NavComp chirp the coordinates to Cato Neimoidia and thinks about the next target, a girl slightly younger than you. Wanted because she killed the man who slaughtered her family. If Din had a stronger moral compass, he wouldn’t take the job but- he needs the credits to support you. And the younglings back on Nevarro. 

He only hopes you don’t find out the grisly details of the job and, since Guild members don’t ask questions, he won’t know more than he needs to. Because he doesn’t know what he’d do if you reacted badly to the truth about his next bounty. Doesn’t know what he’d do if you realize he really is a bad man who preys on weak, young girls, whether or not he had to stow them on his ship in the middle of a firefight. 

Sighing, Din spares one last look at you before heading downstairs. He picks up the book Crix bought you, flips through the pages, and settles on your home planet. For the next hour or so until you wake up, Din memorizes every single bit of information about your home world, ingraining then in his head. He wants to say he’s doing it out of curiosity but the growing romantic in him says that he simply wants to impress you. 

So he learns about the local vegetation, biomes, unique animals, big cities. The singular page devoted to the planet is half scientific, half cultural. There’s a big festival coming up, and Din pulls up a galactic standard calendar. If he catches the next bounty within a month, he might be able to bring you back home in time for it. 

He thinks you’d like to be back home, if not for the festival then for your parents. He remembers what you said about them, about the too-big clothes and Naboo lemon tarts. Selfishly, Din wants to celebrate the festival with you, wants to know what it’s like to have fun with someone he likes, wants to see your face light up with surprise and joy because it’s _Din_ , not anyone else, who brings you home. 

And, with a nervous fidget, he imagines what it would be like to meet your parents. What their reactions would be to seeing their precious daughter with a Mando bounty hunter bound by a code that hides his face. _They won’t like me_ , he thinks sourly, _but at least you like_ _him._ Snorting, he realizes this is the first time he’s ever entertained the thought of seeing someone’s parents. How… domestic. 

By the end of his reading, Din feels more confident, more self-assured than he’s been in a long time. He’ll show you how he feels when he’s ready. And he hopes that, when the time comes, you aren’t scared off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do they actually love each other? Or is Reader in love with the idea of adventure while Mando just wants some stability?? I really don't know... 
> 
> The first draft of this was sooooo angsty that I had to rewrite it because I didn't want anyone to suffer more than they have to, including myself. 
> 
> Also sorry if my writing is inconsistent with the first 2-3 chapters. This is the first fic I’ve ever posted, so my writing has been improving and changing A LOT in the past few months. I’ll go back and make things more smooth and coherent eventually, but for now I’ll finish this first. 
> 
> https://mangobilorian.tumblr.com/


	6. Buirkan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an all Din POV! Mando’a translations at the end.

Din is fucking tired, and the loud-mouthed bitch at his feet isn’t helping his oncoming headache. He can feel it at the forefront of his mind, pushing and growing until his entire head is going to explode. 

“Kjdlgsfbk! Vdqwjkzrty!” Din sighs, not bothering to glance at the girl glaring at him. When she tries to aim a kick at his shin, he lets her because the pain on her face when bone meets metal is so _satisfactory._ Serves her right for being an unruly bounty. 

It took a month. A kriffing month! To catch this young, inexperienced girl. He missed her by three days on Cato Neimoidia. By one day on Drogheda. By a mere _three standard hours_ on Mon Gazza. That doesn’t count the five other planets Din had to stop at for information regarding the sneaky bitch. The cost of fuel and supplies started to outweigh the reward until you suggested a planet she wasn’t even on, and you were _right_.

You had the gut feeling to go to Dalisor, saying that the bounty seemed to like trading, mining, and purse worlds. To his shame, Din had thought you were wrong and was reluctant to make the trip to Dalisor. 

But you were insistent (and convinced him using certain methods), so he made a deal that he’d go alone while you stayed behind in case things went to shit. He took extra measures to ensure your safety, especially since he doesn’t trust Dalisor. Three days on the planet proved fruitless, and he started to doubt your reliability. You had little experience with tracking people after all, and he only allowed you off the Crest when he landed on planets he knew the bounty had been on. 

But having you around meant having an extra ear to fish for intel, and you were _good_ at that. He should have known, especially with the whole Ras Drun fiasco, and it both scared and aroused him to see you soak up information even _he_ missed. Of course, it helps that you’re a pretty girl, and Din’s… well he’s not a pretty girl, that’s for sure.

And you’ve been nothing but amazing at helping him. You know hyperspace lane coordinates off the back of your hand, can plot the most efficient routes through supply stops and- fuck, it’s fucking sexy. Your flying skills, however… are shit. 

At least you’re not as bad as you were in the first lesson, but Din also hasn’t made you fly through asteroid fields again even though getting you hot and angry would be a delicious treat for him. Din _does_ make you fly blindfolded. Sometimes. It builds confidence with the controls. Next time he should suggest you fly naked to get used to the temperature in space. 

“Ptyqwxzvg!” 

Din rolls his eyes, and tugs at the girl to move. He still has another thirty minutes of travel on foot before arriving at the Crest. Din was supposed to arrive an hour ago, but he got side tracked by something much more important than sealing the girl into carbonite.

The Aynur Festival, meant to celebrate the stars, starts in a week or so, and he needed to buy you a gift. Well. Din didn’t _need_ to but- he thought it would be nice? Din’s also a practical man, so he stopped to buy you some female products since your- it was time for you- you’re on your period, and Din doesn’t want another surprise. Kriff, he thought he stabbed you with his dick when he pulled back to find blood on the sheets.

The bounty (what’s her name again?) releases another scream into her gag, but Din knows it’s futile. There’s no one around, and Dalisor is as seedy as they come. No will help her. 

Din trudges through the last leg of his journey, bag of supplies slung over one shoulder, dragging the struggling girl behind him. He continues passing the time with his thoughts, occasionally having to kick the girl to stay quiet— his headache is getting pretty bad. Din knows that the second he sees you, his headache will disappear, so he pushes forward, ignoring the girl’s screams. 

The last month, despite the rapid chase through the galaxy, was good. Actually, it was the best month Din has ever had because he spent the whole time with _you_. Something happened that day in the cockpit, and Din’s thankful for that.

You tell him about your parents whenever he asks, not asking him for information in return. You still don’t know his name, don’t know where he's really from (you think he was born on Mandalore, and he doesn’t deny it), don’t know how old he is. His relationship with you has progressed far enough that he doesn’t feel guilty for holding you without any intention of having sex. 

That’s another thing he found out. Din Djarin, one of the best bounty hunters in the guild, likes snuggles. Fuck. 

The only thing Din feels guilty about— a tidbit of information that keeps him awake when you sleep next to him— is that he never told you the truth of the girl he’s hunting. You wanted to help, but helping him meant that Din had to give up some details about her life, about the bounty on her head. 

He knows that if he told you she killed the men who slaughtered her family, you would not only stop helping him, you’d think he’s a monster. And Din can’t handle either of those things. So he lied. 

He hopes the lie won’t bite him in the _shebs_ when he returns to the Crest. With your hormones dialled up, he can only hope things don’t go to shit the second he walks through the hatch. 

And, since he enters the ship and you’re not there to greet him or the bounty, he releases a breath because nothing went south just yet. 

He doesn’t speak, hauling the girl towards the carbonite chamber. The sooner she’s out of sight, the easier he can rest. Just as he presses the button to open a pod, you climb down the ladder.

“Mando!” You look happy to see him, positively glowing. It’s cute. You’re cute. “I was right then. Dalisor.” Din nods. Of course you were fucking right. He makes a mental note to listen to you more often. 

Din drops the bag of supplies on the ground, careful not to reveal the gift he bought for you, and turns to the bounty. “Is she injured? I can treat her wounds…”

Din sighs. Since that boy on Tatooine, you’d expressed concern over the way he treats his bounties. Din doesn’t care, but _you_? You like bracing ankles and offering help. “Rya, right?” And for the first time since Din gagged and cuffed her, she stays put and nods. “Mando, what did you do?” 

Din shrugs. “Nothing.” You raise an eyebrow, hand moving to rest on a hip. He lingers over where your fingers splay over your clothed skin, knowing that if he were to lift up your shirt and- “Really. I knocked her out, but that’s it.” You take his words with a squint before approaching the girl, crouching down to her level. Your hand reaches for the gag, and Din’s heart starts slamming in his chest and-

“Don’t!” You freeze, and Din winces. He can’t reveal the reason why he doesn’t want the bounty to talk, can’t risk you finding the truth. “She might… bite you,” he finishes lamely. When he thinks your face might fill with suspicion, you soften instead, and Din feels so fucking guilty. 

“Mando. She needs the gag out before going into carbonite anyway. I promise I won’t touch her unless she’s injured. Okay?” 

If Din denies, it would implicate him. If he agrees, you might see him as a liar forever. But he can’t resist the gentle pleading in your eyes, so he gives you a curt nod, purposefully ignoring the confused expression on the bounty’s face. 

You respond with a significantly brighter smile, and your hand reaches the girl’s gag and pulls. There’s a moment of silence, the type of pause before a shit storm, and Din— ever the pessimist— can see everything go to hell and-

“Are you hurt anywhere?” The bounty pauses, her face scrunching up, and there’s so much _compassion_ in your face that it takes Din a moment to even register what the emotion is. 

“Head. He knocked me to the floor,” the bounty rasps, tilting her head towards Din. “Real hard.” You bite in your lip in concentration, and Din wants to scoop you up and kiss you, forgetting all about the troublesome girl. 

“I don’t know how to deal with concussions,” you say, furrowing your brows. Din snorts, thankful that the sound is quiet enough that you don’t hear. 

You have as much medical experience as Paz. Which is to say, not much at all. The most you can do is apply bandages over watered-down bacta ointment and tape ankles. One time, when Din needed a wound cauterized, you squealed and ran away, put off by the idea of burning his flesh closed. He had to bribe you with hugs to get you anywhere near the cauterizer. “How old are you?” you ask softly.

Fuck. Din should really stop the conversation now. You got your answers, the girl isn’t too hurt, and Din needs her in the carbonite right fucking now. Before he picks her up, however, the bounty answers.

“Sixteen standard years.” 

Kriff. 

He didn’t know that. Judging from your face, you didn’t expect it either. After all, you’re only four, five years older than the girl. Fuck. 

“Come on,” Din interrupts gruffly, and picks the girl up. She struggles, screams nonsense profanity in the air as he walks closer and closer to the carbonite chamber. As if sensing that her time is up, she juts a knee into his waist with enough force to send him stumbling into a wall. 

“If our places were switched, he wouldn’t give a damn about you,” she yells, and Din vaguely hears you gasp. “I _had_ to kill them! They killed my parents! My older sisters, my baby brother. He was so- so small and young and- wait no! You have to help me, _please_ I-”

The hiss of the carbonite drowns out her last words. 

Din waits for the ball to drop, for you to be angry with him. With Death Watch, when he fucked up, the trainers didn't give him head pats and cuddles. No, they strapped him onto a Rising Phoenix and made him fly with weights strapped to his feet until he cried. And when he cried, they gave him a heavy training helmet used to strengthen his neck and told him that Mandos don’t cry. If they do, they hide it under beskar. 

So he waits for you to cry or scream or lash out. He waits for his inevitable punishment. Instead, when he dares a glance at your face, you look disappointed. And somehow, that stings worse than anger. 

“Was she telling the truth?” you ask after a long while, long enough for Mando’s feet to go numb. 

“Bounties will say anything to get out of capture.” It’s not a lie, Din tells himself. Bounties say all kinds of shit for freedom. 

“But was _she_ telling the truth? Mando, please…”

He nods in reply, and Din can barely stand the look of your face crumbling into sadness. It makes him hate himself for being the person who caused you pain. 

_No, it wasn’t me. It was the girl and her loud-mouth,_ he tries to reason with himself, but it’s futile. He knows omitting the truth was as bad as outright lying. Death Watch valued honesty. _Haat, ijaa, haa’it_. Truth, honor, vision. If a Mando lied to a fellow warrior, that meant blood. That meant disloyalty and an invitation for death. Din scoffs— for a culture so ingrained with truth, why did they have to hide their faces? 

But Din knows the reason. This is the Way.

“If you had known, you’d be angry with me,” he reasons, reaching a hand out to hold you. For a moment, you hesitate, and that makes Din’s heart break a little more, but you eventually return his hug. For all the bite and teeth you earned in the past two months, you still melt into signs of affection and validation. 

“I wouldn’t be angry. I know you need bounties for credits and fuel, but… a teenager? One who killed her family’s murderers? That’s so _wrong_.” Din sighs and rubs a hand down your back.

“Like you said, she’s a killer.” 

“You’re a killer too, Mando. If you justify all your bounties as being killers, what does that make you?” You break away from his hug, and Din fights the urge to pull you back. “You kill bad people, yes. But what about the people who kill for a good reason? Where do you draw the line? Where do you define the difference between you and the clients and the bounties?” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your jaw stiffens, something like anger in your eyes. But it disappears before it takes root, and Din watches you sag, head bowing.

“I guess,” you shrug, “I’m tired, and I have cramps.” You turn away and make for the bed, halting when Din tells you to wait. He picks up the discarded bag on the floor, purposefully ignoring the gift, and hands you the feminine products. 

Your eyes are blank, no emotion in them whatsoever. Din knows that’s better than anger, but it’s a lot worse than happiness. You take the package without another word and walk to the ‘fresher, the door sliding closed. 

Din waits for three beats before slipping his helmet off and rubbing a gloved hand against his bare face. He desperately needs to shave, the growing stubble chafing against the helmet sometimes. Din wonders how you’d react to seeing his face, see his eyes and hair and-

Fuck, those thoughts are traitorous. As much as Mando needs- _wants_ \- you, he needs the Way more. It will be a long, long time before he’ll ever reveal his face to anyone, not even you. The sound of the faucet snaps Din out of his head, and he puts the metal back on, not flinching at the added weight. 

Before you emerge from the ‘fresher, Din climbs up the ladder and into the cockpit. 

* * *

Din lays on the bed, chest heaving and sweating. It’s the first time you’ve had sex in a while, so he might have— no, he definitely— acted a little more enthusiastic than normal.

You curl next to him, and despite not being able to see your face, he can sense a tired sort of contentment. He reaches out for you on instinct, and pulls you closer. 

This is how it should be. Din thought things would be more strained, more awkward, but it’s not. Only two standard days have passed since he sealed the bounty in carbonite, and you haven’t said a word about her. 

Din hopes your acceptance of the situation lasts, though, because he set the coordinates to your home planet already. If everything stays normal, you’ll be home with a day to spare with your family and about three days to celebrate the Festival. 

When you asked where the ship was going next, he had shrugged and said he’d figure it out later. Since then, he’s been trying to hide the display from you, distracting you with… other things. 

“Mando?” 

“Hmm?” He doesn’t flinch when you trace a finger down his bare chest, and he mentally pats himself on the back. 

“I was thinking….”

“Yes?” 

“Umm. Don’t take what I’m going to say the wrong way or anything, but I had an idea and wanted to run it by you, so-”

“Just tell me.” Din sighs as you practically vibrate with nervousness in his arms. Most of the time, you act so differently from the girl you were when he found you. But in times like this, you’re every bit the same fidgety, insecure girl. 

“I _will_. Let me- it’s hard to say it in words, you know?” He rolls his eyes. Din stops himself from getting too annoyed at you, but it’s hard when you keep going on and on and on-

“We could release her…?”

“What?” He hears you sigh, and your body pulls away just a little bit. If the lights were on, he could imagine seeing you pout or maybe furrow your brows. 

“Rya. We can let her go, say she got away.” Din scoffs. Did you even know what you were _saying_?

“I can’t do that. She’s money, and we need the credits.” 

“Then- I don’t know- we give her to the client and rescue her. Look, Mando, she’s pretty skilled with hiding and tracking. We could use someone like her and-”

“Stop talking,” he says a little too loudly, a little too aggressively. He can hear the slight quiver in your breathing and fuck- he doesn’t want to _scare_ you. That’s the last thing he wants to do. But he doesn’t know how to say his reasons for why your idea is shit, doesn’t know if you’d even understand. 

First of all, Din doesn't usually give the carbonite directly to the client. Karga does that. Secondly, neither of you need the girl; she’d only be a strain on resources. And she could turn coat any day and word would get out about his treachery. 

Din’s a Guild-registered bounty hunter. There’s rules he needs to follow, rules that allow him to operate and earn credits. Just because he cares for you doesn’t mean he should give up his entire fucking career to appease you. The Mando part of him screa _ms Aliit ori'shya tal'din_ , screams that family is more than blood, and his one happiness could be ripped away from him because he’s too stubborn to break the rules. 

You’re the closest person he has to family now. You make him feel like a man, not a walking piece of metal, not a monster. He’s Din Djarin with you, but you don’t even know his name.

He knows releasing the girl would only bring hell on him, and most importantly, you. Din can’t risk that. 

“Forget I said anything,” you mumble, and Din’s chest aches a little bit more. The fight retreats from your voice. 

“I… shouldn’t have been so loud.” He brings you back to his chest. “Do you want to know where we’re going next?” he murmurs into the top of your head. 

“... okay.” He sighs, and when he reveals the location, he feels you gasp, warm breath fanning over his skin.

“Really? Why?” Din suppresses the urge to laugh. 

“Because the Aynur Festival is soon, and I thought you’d like to go.” You tense in his arms, muscles poised and turned to steel, and Din wonders if he said the wrong thing. If the festival was a bad idea, and if he fucked up. Shit, he needs to-

“How do you know about that?” you ask quietly. He sighs. You don’t seem angry, just… resigned?

“Your book. We don’t-”

“No! I… I want to go. It’s just that the last time I went was with my brother. I never went after he- when I thought he... you know. So- thank you.” 

There’s a quiver in your voice, and Din is really starting to think he fucked up— he never meant to bring up something sad about your past, especially concerning your brother— but, instead of pushing him away, you cry into his chest. 

And, for a second, Din feels sorry he dismissed your request to free Rya go. 

Then he shoves that thought out his head. 

The important thing right now is making you feel better, letting you go home to see your family and participate in a fun festival. He won’t allow himself to think of the next bounty on the list, nor will he let _you_ think about it either. Because if your feelings about Rya were hurt since she had an honorable cause, you would never forgive him if he brought in the next target, an ex-rebel, to an Imp warlord. Which he plans to do because he needs the money for you and the beskar for the foundlings.

He wants you safe first, even if it means you won’t be entirely happy with him. In fact, Din can live with your resentment, even your disappointment, as long as you’re by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter chapter, but Din’s a blunt guy, so he rambles a lot less than Reader. 
> 
> Shebs: backside  
> Haat, ijaa, haa’it: Truth, honor, vision.  
> Buirkan: responsibility  
> Aliit ori'shya tal'din: family is more than blood  
> 


End file.
